


hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night)

by leafpile



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (its stan), Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 23:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafpile/pseuds/leafpile
Summary: His voice trails off as the two of them head up the stairs, Eddie still rambling on and Richie’s responding cackle still obnoxiously loud, joyous and brimming with tipsiness; there’s a suddenthumpat the top of the landing, followed with the immediate cacophony of a distinctiveRichie-Tozier-laughing-fit, and Ben smiles fondly to himself.Maybe,he thinks,just maybe, things will turn out alright in the end.(a retelling of chapter two, explored through each loser's perspective and with the bonus edit of eddie survives)





	hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night)

**Author's Note:**

> howdy yall.. i started writing this after like my _third_ rewatch of chapter two, so, here we are!! the tags make it sound bleak as fuck but its sweet i promise. enjoy! <3
> 
> (title is from [_devil town — cavetown_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=57nMDiqHwYA))
> 
> **tw** for typical content expected of chapter two. i wasn't sure on tags/rating/warnings so i'm clarifying just in case! eddie gets injured, some abuse is alluded to in regards to bev and also on a more minor note eddie, richie has a small moment of mentioning homophobic bullying.. i think thats it? stay safe lads <3

It was summer when Richie Tozier realised he was in love with Eddie Kaspbrak.

He remembers it specifically because the summer of ’89 was simultaneously the best and the _worst_ summer of all time; the worst, for self-explanatory reasons, but the good _might_ just overshadow the bad in this one singular instance, and there were _plenty_ of nice moments to latch onto that summer. Richie can recount endless memories of the warm sunny weather, the new movies showing in the theatre and the race to the arcade afterwards, the cosy sleepovers and the late-night snack-runs to the local store when they really _should_ have been in bed, the eventful days of just spending time with the Losers and enjoying each other’s blissful company.

It was around the middle of that summer when he had finally come to accept that his thing for Eddie was, in fact, _something_, and not _nothing_ like he had been telling himself—and pretending—it was.

He knew, sitting in Eddie’s bedroom, his feet kicked up onto the bed and occasionally nudging against Eddie’s, a comic in his hands and the sunlight filtering in through the window, he _knew_ that he wanted this for the rest of his life, whatever the fuck “_this”_ is. He knew that his desire to reach out and hold Eddie’s hand while they were watching a movie, or the lingering need to throw an arm around his shoulders as they walked side-by-side, or the incessant nagging in his head to tease and bicker and to earn Eddie’s attention— he knew it was _something_. He knew that he wanted nothing more than to just be with Eddie Kaspbrak for an entire lifetime, in some sort of way, _any_ sort of way, and maybe Eddie doesn’t want that in the same way Richie wants it, but that was okay as long as they were _together_.

(He knew, lying in Eddie’s bed, back pressed to the wall as he tries to distance himself an arms-length away from where Eddie is asleep, peaceful and quiet, that the _something_ he feels is _love_.)

27 years later, Richie Tozier realises for a second time—or rather, he _remembers_—that he’s still very much in love with Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

It’s fall. The leaves on the trees are pretty shades of orange, some red and deep brown, and the sun is warm but the wind is _just_ chilly enough to need a light jacket. Derry is the same as it always has been; suffocating, uneasy, a hefty sense of dread settling on Richie’s shoulders the second he had drove past state lines, and the scent of death lingering in the air like a warning— or, perhaps, like a _taunt_. Some things never change.

Eddie, however, _has_ changed.

Not in terms of personality, _fuck no_, he’s certainly still loud and awful and just as quick-witted as Richie is, comebacks still weak in comparison but that doesn’t stop him from snapping back with an energetic _“fuck you, man!”_ every time Richie so much as _smirks_ in his direction. He’s still got that over-the-top paranoia with germs and safety, he’s still got that fucking inhaler, and he’s _still_ wearing polo shirts in the year 2016— but there’s a strange comfort in that, _familiarity_, like coming home, and Derry sure as _shit_ isn’t Richie’s home but maybe Eddie _is_.

His face has changed. In a good way, of course, but it’s hard _not_ to notice. _Age looks good on him_, Richie thinks, _better than it does on me_, the soft lines of his profile and the gentle flutter of his long eyelashes as he laughs at something Bill had said; he turns to Richie then, brown eyes just as wide as they always have been, the dimples in his cheeks cutting deeply as he smiles genuinely at him, and Richie has to tear his gaze away before he blurts out the embarrassing confession that he thinks Eddie is hot now.

_Obviously_, he’s going to take the time to point out how blatantly hot _Ben_ has gotten over the years, but that’s only because everyone in the room is staring at him like they’re smitten, and Richie _fully_ understands. He’s completely serious and unashamed when he takes the plunge and tells Ben that he’s hot, and he thinks it might have been worth it with the way that Eddie nods and offers a casual _“he’s right”_ as he lets his eyes drift down Ben’s torso.

He stores _that_ piece of information away for future dissection.

Eddie’s taller now—not as much as you’d expect in 27 years, and he still snaps every time Richie coo’s and jokes about his short stature—but with the height comes the _everything else_ and it’s no surprise that he also happens to have properly filled into it, jeans stretched snug around his thighs and shirt following the curves of his torso. _Ugh._

It’s weird— he realises that a lot of his descriptors for Eddie might just be different synonyms of _“weird”_, and it’s because he’s _struggling_. He can’t exactly find a great way to explain how it feels when you take a visit to your childhood hometown—that you only remembered you were born in about an _hour_ ago—and you come face-to-face with the man that, as a kid, you were head-over-heels in love with, and he’s fucking _hot_ now and might be sorta buff under his stupid bomber jacket and polo shirt combination because you think you can see the fabric fold around some vague muscles; on top of _all_ of that, if it wasn’t bad enough that he just so happens to be unfairly attractive and everything you’re into, it turns out that you’re _also_ being hit with more and more memories by the second, every single moment you ever spent together coming back to you full-force.

And you’re still, _still_, hopelessly and madly in love with him.

He rests his hands on the table, fingers tapping against the wood and then fidgeting idly as he talks to Richie about his job—_actually_ talks about it this time, without any more jokes cutting him off—his voice deep at points and then quickly skipping a couple notches higher as he goes off on a tangent and starts to ramble. Richie’s focus shifts to the flash of gold around one of Eddie’s fingers and he immediately feels his heart stop. He’s _pathetic_.

“Hey, wait, Eddie,” he lets out a small laugh just to feign casualness, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the eyes starting to settle on the two of them, “you got married?”

Eddie frowns.

“Yeah, why’s that so fucking _funny_, dickwad?”

“What, to like, a _woman_?”

Richie doesn’t know why he asked that. Or, _okay_, he knows why he asked it, and he really fucking shouldn’t have because he’s sorta drunk and he’s sorta sad and he sorta doesn’t want to think about this and he _really_ doesn’t actually want an answer to that question. If he could just get up and leave right now he would. He heavily considers it, thinks about maybe taking a bathroom break and then quickly escaping through a window or something, so he can get in his car and drive away and forget about all of this again.

The Losers laugh a little, amused at the usual Richie-antics, but he’s not paying attention, too busy staring at Eddie and trying to garner something, _anything_, from the flicker of emotion that washes over his face before it settles back on neutrality.

“Fuck you, bro.” Eddie points a single chopstick at him, accusatory, though the slightly amused tone and the sparkle in his eyes says that he’s not mad at all.

It’s a certain look that Richie is so acutely used to, something he’s had to adjust to and figure out because he likes to taunt and tease and _push_ but he never wants to push too far, and with Eddie it’s always been strangely easy to just keep going. He hardly ever backs down.

So Richie laughs, notes the complete lack of answer—while knowing, obviously, that of _course_ Eddie married a woman, he’s straight and happy and this isn’t ever going to happen—and fumbles with his empty shot glass as he grins at him.

“Fuck you!” He yells, loud and obnoxious, a distraction, begging for someone else to say something and get away from this topic—

“Alright, what about you, Trashmouth?” Bill leans forward, past Bev, and looks earnestly at Richie, “you married?”

Well. _Great_.

He’s about to offer a simple and succinct “_no_”, shrug off any questions or jokes made at his expense, but before he can even open his mouth, Bev gives him this strange look and then quickly cuts in.

“There’s no _way_ Richie’s married,” she announces, causing the rest of the Losers to start bickering and arguing amongst themselves, enough so that Bev can spare a second to send Richie a small, reassuring smile.

It clicks, like a key unlocking something in his brain, and he suddenly remembers that she _knows_.

He had told her one day back when they were kids, or maybe when they were teenagers, because Richie remembers that phase of being awkwardly tall and lanky and Bev always making fun of him; a cigarette held between her dainty fingers and painted nails as the two of them passed it back and forth, talking about school and life and the fact that Richie Tozier likes _boys_.

(She had smiled, warmly, like she still does 27 years later, tucking a curl of ginger hair behind her ear and then gently punching him in the shoulder as she joked that he _“better not steal any of the cute ones!”_)

“I am,” he says, playing it casual because he’s _mildly_ offended at the unanimous decision that he can’t _possibly_ be married, “no, I got married.”

Bev shakes her head, amused, and lets her shot glass balance precariously between her fingers as she turns to grin at him.

“Richie, I don’t believe it.”

Across the table, Ben raises an eyebrow at her, an almost knowing grin stretching across his mouth when he tips his drink in her direction, and Richie wants to call them both out for laughing at him and question their certainty on _why_ he couldn’t be married—

“When?” Eddie interrupts, tone genuine.

Richie’s stomach twists at the wide eyes, the raised eyebrows and the serious interest in his non-existent marriage, and he doesn’t know what else to do besides keep going. He’s scared he’ll crack otherwise.

“Did you not hear about this?” Richie asks.

Eddie shakes his head at the same time he responds with a small “_no_”.

“You didn’t know I got married?”

He’s not sure why Eddie would have known, if Richie actually _was_ married. It’s not like he’d have known who he was, or remembered him at all. He’d have just read about it online, no doubt, a shitty article on a _“news”_ website delving into Richie’s personal life and spilling the beans of his hypothetical marriage to a hypothetical woman; the headline bold and grating, _UNFUNNY STAND-UP COMEDIAN RICHARD TOZIER MARRIES A WOMAN_.

That’s a better joke than anything in his current scripts.

“No,” Eddie replies, louder this time, his drink held carefully in his hand and his eyebrows still raised as he stares curiously at Richie.

It’s too much. He turns to look at Bev for a second, just a brief second to collect himself, ignores the small worried twitch of her eyebrow and focuses on her soft eyes as he pushes away any thoughts of Eddie Kaspbrak’s stupidly inquisitive voice and genuine interest in Richie’s love life; not like he has a reason to know, or a _right_, given that he’s the one _actually_ married— Richie turns back to him with a carefully neutral expression.

“Yeah, no,” he smiles and hopes it doesn’t come out as weak as he feels, “me and your mom are very, _very_ happy right now.”

Bill suddenly chokes on his drink, spitting the entire mouthful back into the glass as he lets out an ugly snort, and when Bev starts to laugh, the whole group quickly joins in. Mike covers his mouth as he tries to hide it, but the deep chuckle slips out regardless, and Ben is laughing around his weak attempts to stop as he helps the waitress place some things down on the table.

Eddie is staring blankly ahead, at the wall, his drink held halfway to his mouth and his lips pulled into a straight line. There’s a slight twitch at the corner, just the _tiniest_ hint of a restrained grin, but Eddie shakes his head and looks away. He lifts a finger from his glass, offering a casual “_fuck you_” as he points but doesn’t glance over, and Richie—for varying reasons—lets the conversation end there.

The expectation of taking a nice, relaxing trip back to Derry to spend a couple of well-needed vacation days with his childhood friends is quickly crushed by the following sequence of events: Mikey decides to mention that _actually_, the soul-crushing anxiety and fear they all felt upon receiving his phone call was _not_ coincidental, and that they should all now be remembering that time an evil alien-clown tried to murder them over an entire summer; the fortune cookies that were kindly delivered to their table post-meal turned into disgusting, freaky, tiny little monsters that immediately started attacking all of them; Mike again reveals _another_ secret, that he wants everyone to face the fucking clown a second time and most definitely die doing it, and _oh_, turns out their seventh and final friend, the missing member from tonight’s reunion? Stanley? Turns out he’s already fucking dead.

So, all in all, Richie is having a pretty awful evening. It’s certainly been _eventful_, to say the least. His emotions are all over the place, and his earlier idea of escaping seems to now be a unanimous decision agreed upon by all of the Losers, everyone angrily and fearfully heading to their cars so they can drive back to the townhouse, pack up their shit, and fucking _bolt_.

He pushes the button on his keys to unlock his car, mumbling to himself under his breath as he yanks the door open, because _fuck_, Stan’s dead, one of his bestest friends—because all of the Losers were _best friends_, but Stan was _important_ to Richie—and Richie didn’t even remember he fucking existed until two hours ago. He’ll never get to rekindle that friendship again.

He bangs a fist down on the roof of his car, dramatic and stupid but there’s no one else around to witness his minor breakdown and there’s certainly not anyone close enough to him to see the moisture start to fog over his vision— the lights of the car parked in the space next to his suddenly flash, car unlocked, and Richie sniffles quickly before straightening up and looking over his shoulder.

Eddie approaches the lone car, fidgeting with the keys in his hands, swinging them around on one finger and then almost dropping them when he stops walking, eyes going wide as he seems to remember something. He’s frozen for a second before he turns, eyebrows only raising higher when he locks eyes with Richie.

“_What?_” Richie asks, tired and only _slightly_ annoyed as he mentally works through the ever-growing list of problems he has to try and process. Being face-to-face and _alone_ with Eddie isn’t something he trusts himself to deal with right now.

Eddie only points casually at Richie’s car, keychain dangling lazily from his finger.

“Are you driving?” He asks, slowly, and Richie takes a minute to try and decipher what the _fuck_ kind of question that is, looking around the completely empty car park in pure confusion.

“Uh, _yeah_, Eds,” he turns back to Eddie, “how the fuck else am I getting back to the inn?”

His sarcasm is apparently not appreciated. Eddie glares at him, but it quickly shifts into something different, something akin to _worry_, and he wrings his hands nervously in front of his chest before responding.

“But we were drinking.”

_Here it comes_, Richie thinks.

“Statistically, the rate of drunk driving accidents—”

“Stop,” Richie holds a hand up, “don’t get all fuckin’ morbid on me, man. Not now.”

A moment of silence settles between them, understanding, and the cold night-time breeze passes by them with a quiet whisper and the trailing of a few dead leaves. Richie taps restlessly against the roof of his car, the metal cold underneath his fingertips, and Eddie lets out a small sigh as he folds his arms across his chest.

The fabric of his jacket shifts in _that way_ again and Richie ducks his head down to hide a flustered grin.

“Right,” Eddie says, “are you still driving?”

“Yes.” Richie replies without a second of hesitation, because _duh_.

He thinks he can actually spot the _exact_ moment that the veins in Eddie’s forehead explode.

Eddie throws his hands up, clearly annoyed, and tosses his car keys into his pocket as he stomps towards Richie’s car.

“Great, fucking _fantastic_,” he mumbles to himself, “I guess I’ll just put my life in _your_ hands instead.”

Richie leans forward, elbows pressing against the roof of his car, and shakes his head.

“No, no, _hey_,” he points at Eddie, “what’re you doing now?”

Eddie stops dead in his tracks and then hold his arms out to the side.

“I’m getting a ride,” he blinks dumbly, “are you gonna give me one or not?”

Richie, in all his glory, manages to hold back from making a _vile_ joke that probably wouldn’t be appreciated at all. He still smirks though, to himself, and Eddie thankfully doesn’t seem to catch it.

“Well, _sure_,” he hums, ignoring that he’s been drinking more than Eddie has tonight, “you don’t have to be so _mean_ about it, Spaghetti-man.”

Eddie flips him off before yanking the passenger side door open.

“Fuck you,” he says, and then slips into the car and pulls the door closed behind him.

Richie waits for a second, huffs out an amused little laugh at the sight of seeing Eddie through the car window—sat up ridiculously straight, the seatbelt already tugged snug across his chest despite the engine not even being on yet—and then settles into his car as he prepares himself for what he _assumes_ is about to be the worst drive of his life.

(Like clockwork, a mere three seconds into backing up, Eddie gasps a quiet _“watch out”_—when there’s literally _nothing_ to watch out for—and Richie doesn’t hesitate to smack him over the head with the hand he had previously flung around the back of his seat.)

* * *

The door to the townhouse swings open with a loud _bang_ against the nearest wall, rattling the old frame of the building and echoing through the corridor that leads into the lounge area; Beverly jumps slightly at the noise, hands shaking around her room key that she clasps tightly in between her fingers, and then she visibly relaxes when the next sound to follow is something that _everyone_ is all too familiar with at this point.

“Fuck you, man!” Eddie yells, the front door slamming shut behind him, “I would totally _kill_ at karaoke, you don’t know _shit! _My voice has only improved with age—”

“Like fine wine?” Richie interrupts, grinning, and then ducks out the way of a punch directed at his arm.

The two of them continue in a beeline for the stairs, either uncaring or not yet noticing the crowd silently watching them from the open doors of the lounge, and it’s only when Richie finally walks past the doorway—Eddie hot on his heels—that he freezes, turning and glancing at the Losers one-by-one.

Eddie bumps into his back, mumbling a soft _“ow, what the fuck?”_, and then also turns to find out their reason for stopping.

“What’d we miss?” Richie asks, gaze settling on Ben.

Ben is _more_ than appreciative to be the one asked to explain this, to be trusted with filling in the gaps, but he actually… finds himself at a loss for words. He _knows_ what’s going on, and he knows what to say in his _head_, he just can’t figure out how to properly articulate that Bev knew Stan was going to die before anyone else did, and she _also_ knows how and when the rest of them are going to die. He’s not sure if Richie really wants to know that. Eddie _certainly_ wouldn’t want to know.

He looks to Mike, for assistance, and apparently makes _some_ sort of expression as he does so because Richie immediately sighs.

“Ah _fuck_,” he runs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it further than it already is, “we’re not getting out of here tonight, are we?”

Next to him, Eddie drags his hand down his face as he groans, and Ben holds back a little smile at the nostalgia of knowing Eddie is still the same old Eddie— they’re all still the same, in most ways, and it’s a refreshing comfort amongst the chaos of everything else happening to them.

“You might want to sit down for this,” Mike says, nodding to the empty couch seats, and Ben only shrugs helplessly when Richie stares disbelievingly at him.

He starts to mumble under his breath, unintelligible, and dramatically waves his hands as he heads towards the couch opposite Beverly. She stays unmoving, thinking, _panicking_, and Richie slides a gentle hand over her shoulder as he passes her, a brief touch that causes her to look up and smile wryly at him; he lets himself settle into the couch, sitting up uncomfortably straight and clearly nervous, but he kicks a single foot out and rests it casually against Bev’s.

It only takes a few seconds before Eddie plants himself cautiously at Richie’s side, a solid gap of distance between them on the small couch.

The room is silent, deafeningly so, the air thick and tense and looming with a sense of unknown discomfort, and Richie goes to open his mouth again but Bev cuts him to the chase, breaking the silence with a soft sob when her glossy eyes land on Eddie— to which he _immediately_ panics, eyes going wide and hands raising in concern as he quickly glances around the room, mouth moving with no noise coming out.

“Wh— I didn’t—" He slowly reaches forward, letting a hand hover over Bev’s knee, “are you okay, Bev?”

Ben can’t _stand_ seeing her like this. Beverly Marsh, so passionate and considerate, carrying this unfair weight and breaking into tears at the sight of the friends she loves so much, the people she’s watched die, over and over again, night after night, struck with a curse she never deserved to bear. He wishes he could do something worthwhile, and he wants to move closer and comfort her properly, but her tears soon stop falling and she lets out a shaky laugh as Richie whispers something to her, as Bill carefully runs a hand through her hair and Mike gently squeezes her shoulder.

She looks up at Ben, wetness clinging to her eyelashes, and throws him a lazy smile before dabbing at her face and precisely wiping away the fresh smudges of makeup under eyes.

After an unknown amount of time—Ben hadn’t been keeping track, because it’s hard to try and monitor how long you spend discussing a certain topic when said discussion is actually just a room full of people yelling and almost crying—the entire topic of _“Beverly has watched us all die” _has been covered from just about every possible angle.

Eddie had an asthma attack in the midst of it all, something which Ben now remembers is not actually an asthma attack at all and is _actually_ a panic attack, and he’d pulled a standard blue inhaler out of the pocket of his jacket, not carrying around a comically cute fanny pack anymore— Ben misses that, in a weird way. He can’t even begin to count how many times they’d all get injured as kids, scrapes and bruises and strange wounds almost every day, and every single time Eddie was there with a seemingly endless supply of bandages to help patch them up.

He probably still has all of that, just tucked away in the medicine cabinet of his bathroom and not stashed in the impossibly-small space of a silly little bag.

Beverly has long stopped crying. Instead, she sits still, staring absently at the table as Eddie holds both of her hands clasped tight between his, and Mike sits casually on the arm of her chair so he can keep his arm resting around her shoulder; Ben would move closer, try and comfort her in some way that might be better than just standing nearby and offering her reassuring smiles every now and then, but there’s not really much space to try and fit into— or, there could be, but he still has some doubts about a lot of things in his life and he doesn’t exactly feel in the mood to start delving into them right now.

Bill seems to have had a similar thought, taking off upstairs with a stuttered mumble of _“I need a minute”_, and with the way Richie hoists himself up off the couch, it almost appears for a second that he’s about to try and leave. _Again_.

Surprisingly, _or not_, he heads towards the bar. Ben still hasn’t figured out if there’s supposed to be a bartender to actually _serve_ them drinks, what with how Bev and Richie continue to just help themselves, but he also considers that it’s not like any of them are in the mood to wait.

“Hey, Rich,” Ben calls, following after Richie and leaving the others to comfortably talk amongst themselves, “what took you so long getting back here? Where’d you even go?”

Richie gives him a crooked grin as he looks up from where he’s pouring himself a glass of bourbon, quickly capping the bottle and shoving it back on the shelf where he found it.

“_Shockingly_, we didn’t actually take any detours,” he moves to sip his drink but pauses, jostling the tumbler instead as he points a finger at Ben, “mind you, Eddie tried to fuckin’ tell me I was going the wrong way at one point. Turns out, he just got lost on his own way into Derry and _then_ tried to convince me his route was a _shortcut_. Yeah _right_.”

The chipper tone of his voice and the wonky smile on his face means _nothing_ when he downs his entire drink in one go, hissing as soon as he swallows it and then instantly grimacing and sticking his tongue out.

“No, yeah,” he drops the tumbler onto the bar and Ben winces at the glass hitting the wood, somehow not smashing, “Eds _freaked_ over drunk driving, so I gave him a ride back. Don’t worry, we didn’t bail on ‘ya, Benny-boy.”

Ben squints at that, leaning back onto the bar.

“But you were drunker than he was.”

Richie smiles wide, still evidently drunk and just getting worse with each bottle he helps himself to, and waves a hand dismissively as if he doesn’t have a response. Ben doesn’t expect one, really, because there’s not really a single answer he can think of as to why Eddie Kaspbrak would knowingly get in a car with drunk Richie Tozier as the driver, besides the fact that he undoubtedly trusts Richie with his _life_.

This isn’t the first time that Eddie has seemingly threw away all of his preconceived notions about health and safety for the sake of doing something with—or _for_—Richie; there were several times in the barrens where the dam they were building would fall apart, not stable at all thanks to _someone_ rearranging the pieces, and Richie would tug a loudly-protesting Eddie down into the water, only taking a few minutes before Eddie would stop screaming about things brushing his legs and then he’d wholeheartedly throw himself into a splash-fight with the others, dirty water be damned.

There were times, when they got a little older, where Richie and Eddie would share food. Richie would tie his hair back with an elastic band he’d borrow from Bev, bright yellow against the almost-black of his dark hair, and then he’d just lean over, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder as he helped himself to whatever was in his hands; an action that would always receive an annoyed _“fuck off, Rich”_ from Eddie, followed by a cautionary glance to make sure his messy hair was out of the way, and then he’d give a begrudging sigh before lifting his food up for easier access.

Once, Richie accidentally knocked Eddie’s ice cream out of his hands and down onto his shirt, brand new and pristine blue, now covered in dairy and sticky strawberry syrup. Eddie didn’t speak to Richie for a record-breaking _four days_ after that event.

(There was a time, Ben remembers now, on Neibolt street, in that house, when Eddie had broken his arm facing off against _It_— on his own, braver than any of them could ever be. He was screaming, they all were, but Richie was yelling at _Eddie_, not out of fear or pain, but to _distract_ him; Eddie had looked up at him, teary-eyed, and despite screaming only seconds earlier, had instantly changed his yelling to bicker back with Richie as he _let_ him snap his arm back into place.)

Eddie suddenly makes his presence known at the bar, briskly walking behind it and shoving at Richie with his shoulder when he passes him, before grabbing a bottle of something that Ben can’t read the label of and pouring himself an overflowing shot. Ben watches Richie watch _Eddie_, his eyes obviously focused as they follow Eddie’s fingers grabbing the shot glass, tracking all the way up to where he tips it into his mouth and then scrunches his face up. The little grin that breaks out onto Richie’s face is sweet, and Ben finds himself smiling along.

Something—or _someone_—bumps into his side, a gentle nudge, and he turns with wide eyes to find Beverly stepping up to the bar. Ben takes a quick glance back towards the lounge and spots Mike laying out some folders and documents on the table.

“Mikey wants to talk to us all,” Bev says, voice quivering only slightly, but she pushes through it with a barely-there smile, “I’m gonna go freshen up a little, wipe all this crap off my face.”

Richie leans forward onto his elbows, blinking up at her through his outrageously thick glasses.

“Why, Miss Marsh,” he flutters his eyelashes, voice taking on some strange country accent, “you already look as pretty as a warm summer’s day.”

“That makes like, _no_ sense, moron,” Eddie mutters, pouring another shot.

Bev reaches across, taking it from where he’s about to pick it up, her dainty fingers wrapping around the glass as she lifts it up with a small salute and then quickly drinks it down.

Eddie stares outlandishly at her, mouth dropping open and eyebrows furrowing as he throws a hand out to gesture towards her, a silent proclamation of _“what the fuck”_, no doubt. Ben and Richie only grin, and Bev bursts into giggly, unbridled laughter the second she taps the glass back onto the bar. She waves a dismissive hand at Eddie.

“Don’t be jealous, Eddie,” she tucks a loose curl behind her ear, arm brushing against Ben’s when she moves, “I’m sure your wife thinks _you’re_ as pretty as a warm summer’s day.”

It’s a sweet comment, endearing and charming, so Ben isn’t sure why Eddie seems to freeze for a moment, hand faltering with where he’s pouring another shot. He thinks he notices Richie stiffen a little too, standing up properly and distractedly wiping at his elbows as he avoids looking at anyone.

_Maybe it’s nothing_, Ben thinks, maybe it’s just the entire weight of their current situation settling back over them, the jokes and laughter quickly dying down only to be replaced with the solemn dread of what’s to follow. It’s hard to stay positive when dealing with something like this; sudden recovered memories, an entire childhood coming back to you like it was just yesterday, friends and loved ones you never even knew existed until a few hours ago, the inevitability of all of them being lost all over again when this comes to an end.

Beverly shifts, ducking her head, and then idly ruffles her hair as she kicks one foot against the floor.

“Don’t drink too much, boys,” she says, nodding at Richie specifically before she heads out of the room and towards the stairs.

Richie scoffs, mumbles something that Eddie quickly snaps back at, but Ben watches with fondness as Bev walks up the stairs. She turns back on the third step, red hair swaying slightly over her shoulder as she looks at him, and then she smiles, soft and genuine and everything Ben remembers. She smiles at him, just for him, and he gives a warm smile back along with a nod of his head, a reassurance, an _“I’m here for you”_, and she responds with a dorky thumbs up before continuing on and out of sight.

There’re footsteps in the rooms upstairs, Bev and Bill wandering around, and in the lounge, Mike stares distractedly at some weird lampshade-looking thing on the table while Richie and Eddie continue to playfully yell at each other behind the bar.

It’s cute, but it’s certainly an earful.

“_So_,” Ben asks, snapping them both out of their conversation and startling Eddie, “how are you getting your car back?”

Eddie furrows his eyebrows, thinking, and then suddenly smacks the heel of his palm against his forehead, making an audible _thud_. Richie laughs at him, realisation apparently also settling in, and he narrowly avoids the slap that Eddie tries to land on his arm.

If Ben had his notebook on him, he’d _totally_ be keeping tally of all of these missed shots. Richie’s ego probably doesn’t need the boost, though.

“_Shit_,” Eddie sighs, “I’ll have to go get it tomorrow, or whenever there’s time, I guess.”

Ben hums, understanding, and watches the way that Richie slowly reaches a hand forward, a single finger poking gently at the back of Eddie’s hand to get his attention. Eddie looks up at him, an eyebrow raised in silent question, and Richie smiles genuinely, not a smirk or a cocky grin, but a reassuring little smile.

It’s an exchange that Ben almost tears his eyes away from, a lingering softness underneath it all that screams _“private”_, a weird feeling of invasiveness stirring in his gut as he witnesses something that is _clearly_ not for him to see.

“I’ll take you tomorrow,” Richie says, voice soft, and then he pinches Eddie’s wrist and quickly steals his shot from in front of him, “and _then_ you can take that shitty detour and we’ll race back to see who actually gets here faster.”

Richie wanders out from behind the bar, glass still in hand as he heads towards the doors of the lounge, and Eddie frantically shoves the bottle of alcohol back on the shelf—almost knocking several other bottles to the ground—before following him.

“Fuck you!” He yells, shoving at Richie’s shoulder from behind, “I already told you, _asshole_, it’s faster depending on the lights! It’s _completely_ fucking dependant on the _lights_…”

His voice trails off as the two of them head up the stairs, Eddie still rambling on and Richie’s responding cackle still obnoxiously loud, joyous and brimming with tipsiness; there’s a sudden thump at the top of the landing, followed with the immediate cacophony of a distinctive _Richie-Tozier-laughing-fit_, and Ben smiles fondly to himself.

_Maybe_, he thinks, _just maybe, things will turn out alright in the end_.

* * *

It’s nice to have the Losers Club back together again.

Granted, they’re missing one, and the meeting could certainly be under better circumstances, but Mike knows deep-down that if this had never happened again, there wouldn’t ever _be_ a Losers Club reunion. He would feel too bad to call them all out of nowhere, remind them of their childhood and the horrors they had all blissfully forgot just so he could say hi and invite them over for a drink. It wouldn’t be fair to them. He loves them all too much to put them through that.

This time, it’s a necessary meeting. He wonders, briefly, if he’s selfish for enjoying being in their company again, 27 years of memories that he had to carry, people who had long-since escaped the evil clutches of Derry and had moved on to live arguably better lives; _no, no,_ he thinks, _I can’t be blamed for the happiness I feel at having them back again_— especially not with how they seem to have a few fleeting moments of genuine happiness as a group, despite knowing the reason for their return and the events that are soon to transpire, they still find the time to joke around and laugh as they recall new memories.

It’s bittersweet, but it’s not fake.

Richie pulls at every low-hanging tree branch they pass by, tall enough to easily grab them and let them smack against Eddie’s head as he tries to duck out of the way, and Mike is thankful that he decided to stay somewhere near the middle of the group; Bill keeps pace at his side, swatting away the tree branches left in Richie’s path of destruction, Ben casually strolls a few steps behind them, and Bev has took charge at the front of the pack, knowing their destination and walking backwards as she chews out Richie for _something_.

(Eddie holds a hand to his eye, snickering loud enough for Mike to hear, but Richie seems too focused on listening to Bev to pick up on the mocking laughter at his side.)

It doesn’t take them long to reach the spot that he had in mind, the empty clearing in the middle of the woods—

“We came here after the rock fight,” Bev announces, a smile breaking onto her face, and Ben quickly wanders to the front of the clearing.

“The clubhouse,” he says, distractedly looking around at the ground, “the entrance should be around here somewhere.”

“Oh shit, that’s _right!_ The clubhouse! I remember that!”

Eddie points excitedly at Ben, jogging towards him and helping him scour the ground, kicking his foot around as he demolishes piles of dirt and scatters mounds of dead leaves. A couple float over towards Richie, who doesn’t hesitate to stomp them down with his sneakers, each one that crunches bringing a satisfying little grin to his face.

“How’d you even fuckin’ build that thing anyways, man?” He shoves his hands into his pockets when he’s done crushing the leaves, “I still can’t figure out how you did all that by yourself.”

Ben grins over at him, stood still and with one foot in front of the other, tapping at the ground beneath him and nodding towards the hollow _thunk_ with each kick.

“Would I be a successful architect if I wasn’t good at building things?”

And, _just like that_, the entrance underneath his feet suddenly gives way, dropping Ben down into the clubhouse and eliciting a loud yell from him as he falls, hitting the ground with a dull _thud_ and a small mumble of a pained _“ow”._

Bev breaks into a short laugh and Eddie gives an amused snort, while Richie grins wildly and wanders towards the hole in the ground, peering down into it.

“Is everything alright down there, Mister _successful architect_?”

There’s a muffled response from below, something Mike can’t hear from where he’s standing, but Bev shoves at Richie’s side and offers a giggly _“leave him alone, Trashmouth”_ before she starts to descend the ladder into the clubhouse. At his side, Bill rolls his eyes fondly, tilting his head with a nod for Mike to go ahead, and Mike returns a smile as he heads down with the rest of the Losers.

It’s nothing at all like what they remember, but at the same time, it’s _exactly_ alike; one of the foundation columns is still broken, two snapped pieces on the floor from where Richie had immediately leant on it and knocked it out of place, the Lost Boys poster on the wall stained a dark and dirty brown with years of age, corners frayed and certain patches torn down, and there’s even still that red ball wedged underneath the steps, Eddie picking it up carefully between two fingers as they all grin at the memory of the infamous _paddleball incident_— Stan had complained about it for _hours_.

There are moments of sweetness amongst all the chaos, just like there were 27 years ago, and the clubhouse continues to hold valuable memories for everyone. Some of those memories are unique, individual, only shared with one or two people in the group, and some are spread out amongst all of them, like the day Stan had bought shower caps for everyone.

Bill holds the metal cannister in one hand, a pink shower cap in the other, and Mike can’t help but smile when Richie motions for it to be thrown his way. He holds it carefully, more careful than Mike has ever seen him in his life, and then sits down on the steps while he just _remembers_.

The memories, Mike thinks, hit them all at different times. He’s not sure who remembers what, or if perhaps some of them could be possibly remembering other things, _different_ memories that exist within the same space or area; Bev runs a hand cautiously along one of the walls, smiling absently to herself as she traces a finger against the faded remnants of a chalk drawing, neon pink smudges the only things that are left of whatever she remembers leaving here; Ben watches her fondly, _softly_, a gaze reserved for pure love and admiration, and Bill flicks through a stack of dusty cassette tapes as he laughs under his breath.

Eddie starts to pull at something on the wall, tugging at a loose string and letting it unravel, eventually pulling apart to unveil a roll of fabric that drops into a _hammock_. Piles of dust start to waft up into the air, forcing him into a sudden egregious coughing fit, and everyone is startled out of their individual moments by the familiar spluttering noise of none other than Eddie Kaspbrak.

“No way!” Richie exclaims, gently pushing the shower cap into his jacket pocket as he strides towards Eddie, “I can’t fuckin’ believe this thing’s still here!”

He quickly climbs into it, kicking more dust up at Eddie—who flails his arms dramatically before reaching for his inhaler—and _shockingly_, to Mike’s surprise, there’s only a slight amount of give before it stops stretching and manages to comfortably hold Richie’s weight. He seems to be in disbelief at that too, glancing with wide eyes at the hammock and then grinning back up at the Losers.

“Eddie,” he says, seriously, “get in here.”

Bev chokes, _definitely_ a poorly stifled laugh, and turns to meet eyes with an equally amused Ben.

“Are you fucking _insane_?” Eddie asks, shaking his inhaler and quickly taking another hit, “look how fucking _dirty_ that thing is! Didn’t it used to be white? It’s _brown_, dude, and it’s probably mouldy and rotting and has some sort of bedbugs or something. I won’t be surprised if you fall through in about three seco—”

Richie precariously darts forward, wrapping his hand around Eddie’s wrist, and _pulls_.

“Come on,” he laughs, “we’re meant to be taking a trip down memory lane, or whatever.”

“No!” Eddie shakes his head, struggling to keep his feet on the ground as Richie continues to pull at him, “nuh-uh, no _way_, we won’t even— you _just_ fit and you’re like seven fucking feet tall, I’m not going to fit in there with you—"

Ben wanders over and gives a casual tug at the rope holding the hammock up.

“It’ll hold,” he says, shrugging, and Bill lets out a loud laugh at that.

_This is exactly how I remember it_, Mike smiles to himself, _these are the Losers I remember_.

After a few minutes, Eddie stops fighting it and decides to climb into the hammock, not letting himself be _pulled_ in but instead yanking his arm back with a loud _“fine!”_ and then clambering into the fabric himself; it gives again, sinking dangerously low to the floor, but Eddie stretches his legs out next to Richie’s and shuffles as far back as he can into his own side and the rope pulls taut again, bringing them both back to a regular position and not almost at ground level.

It doesn’t look like a comfortable fit, given their heights and just general size difference—though Eddie hasn’t grown all that much since he was a kid—but neither of them are complaining at all. In fact, it’s the _opposite_, because Bill, Ben, and Beverly have gone back to talking between themselves, rifling through some of the old LP’s on the desk, but Mike is watching the way that Richie casually rests a hand on Eddie’s calf, thumb stroking idly against the fabric of his jeans as he talks about something or other and Eddie listens intently to him, giving a subtle eye-roll or snarky comment every once in a while.

They used to do the same thing back when they were kids, when everyone would actively hang out in the clubhouse every weekend without fail. They’d all meet at a specific time, letting themselves in and climbing down the ladder, and Mike can vividly remember the _endless_ amount of times he would head over thinking he was early, only to hear one of Bev’s LP’s playing loudly through the closed entrance door. He’d open it up, music louder—always something like _Tiffany_, or _Cyndi Lauper_—and jump down, Richie and Eddie swinging casually in the hammock as they flicked through comics and shared a bag of snacks between them.

Mike almost laughs out loud as he remembers the time _Stan_ was squashed up in the hammock with Richie, both of them sitting on the same side and their legs tangled together in the only way possible for them to fit, Stan flicking through his birdwatching book and pointing out the bird that they had just seen 20 minutes earlier— he’s sure everyone else probably remembers this too, considering it was the day that Eddie had angrily implemented the _“10 minute rule”_; something that both he _and_ Richie would later go on to ignore, though no one ever exactly cared enough to call them out on it.

He hates that they have to be together again under these circumstances. He _hates_ that he has to remind everyone what they’re here for, because in any other situation, Mike wants nothing more than to just sit around and watch his friends be happy. He wants to watch Bev excitedly hold up a plastic necklace as Bill blows the dust off of it and Ben helps her tie it around her neck, he wants to watch Richie and Eddie grow into whatever it is that they have going on—because he’s not _blind_, and he recognises that same twinkle in Richie’s eye when he smiles at Eddie as the same one that Ben gets when he looks at Bev—and he wants, more than _anything_, for Stan The Man to be here with them.

“Guys,” he says, calling attention to himself for a moment, “it’s getting late. We should head out soon.”

“R-right,” Bill nods, and then pauses, “what about Stan’s—”

Eddie interrupts with a small noise, frantically waving a hand towards Richie, and grins when the shower cap is placed in his open palm. He puts it on, letting the band snap lightly against his head and glancing between the group.

“I think we found it.”

Everyone breaks into quiet laughter, smiling in a warm moment dedicated solely to Stan, and it eventually fades away when Richie leans forward towards Eddie, pulling at the elastic of the shower cap and practically _cackling_ when it snaps loudly against his forehead.

From behind him, Mike hears the collective amused sigh of both Ben and Beverly, and for a moment, Mike knows that if Stan were here, he’d be doing the same; a barely-there smile on his face as he tries to act unimpressed, a fond eye-roll at the way Bill stutters out a mothering _“knock it off, guys”_, struggling to bite back his laugh and eventually chuckling when Eddie almost comes tumbling out of the hammock, hands catching himself on the ground and Bill instinctively grabbing at his shoulders while Richie tries not to choke on his laughter.

“Come on _Losers_, let’s go already,” Bev says, already one step up the ladder, “we’ve got important matters to attend to.”

She doesn’t say anything about _It_, but she doesn’t have to.

There’s no sudden shift in mood, no sudden dreariness or feeling of unease, just a slowly bubbling wave of _determination_, togetherness despite it all, and Mike gives a small nod to Bev before she climbs up out of the clubhouse. Ben follows behind her, eventually joined by a laughing Bill as he flips Eddie off over his shoulder, and Mike waits for the two of them to stop bickering and prays that the violent swaying of the hammock doesn’t pull the entire clubhouse down.

Richie carelessly climbs out of the fabric, snickering when he happens to kick Eddie—and snickering further at the annoyed punch he gets on his thigh—and then brushes the dirt off his legs as Eddie sits up. He offers a hand out, genuine, and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to take it; Richie gently pulls him to his feet and gives him a warm smile before simply walking away. Mike coughs to stifle a laugh at Eddie’s starry-eyed expression as he stands still, paused, doing nothing but watch Richie leave.

They congregate back in the clearing, some of the Losers sitting down on the grass while the others stand around and wait, their hands nestled in their pockets or folded across their chests as Mike explains to them that _no_, they weren’t together _all_ summer, and that maybe it’d be a wise idea to split up and look for their tokens on their own—

“No, no way man,” Richie shakes his head fervently as he scrunches his face up in distaste, “that sounds like a very bad, very fucking _stupid_ idea. Splitting up has never done anyone any good.”

Mike opens his mouth to counter, but Eddie beats him to it.

“I’m with Richie,” he points enthusiastically, stepping a little closer, and Richie only nods in agreement, “statistically speaking, if you look at the numbers, in a survival scenario, we’d do _much_ better sticking together, it’s just the facts.”

“No,” Bill says, eyeing Mike before he looks back at the two of them, “it’s only going to w-w-_work_ if we’re alone. You _know_ this.”

Eddie sighs, expression pinched, and Richie brings his shoulders high as he rolls his eyes and stares at the ground, a mumble of _“right”_ under his breath. Mike really does pity them, pities _all_ of them, knowing the fear they must be feeling at even just the _idea_ of adventuring through Derry on their own, let alone knowing those encounters will most likely include a run-in with Pennywise itself.

His own panic must be evident on his face, the pure worry he has for his friends as they start to head out of the clearing, because Bill gently lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Mikey,” he smiles reassuringly, but there’s a lingering sense of _unease_ buried underneath it, “we’ll be okay.”

* * *

Being back in Derry is like nothing Bill has ever felt before. He’s not sure _anyone_ could ever say that they understand the feeling of an entire lifetime coming back to you, horrible memories—_nightmares_—of that clown, of the other things it would turn into, of his lost brother that he didn’t even know he ever _had_; except, perhaps, the other Losers could understand this plight, and he hates that even more. They shouldn’t have to.

This, _all of it_, is all his fault.

The main streets are busy, sidewalks packed full of people excitedly gathering for the festival later in the day, and the roads themselves are home to the ongoing parade, huge floats and endless escort vehicles taking up all the space. Bill veers off down a side-street, tired of the ridiculously slow pace he’s been forced to pedal his bike thus far. He could have _walked_ around Derry faster than this.

He remembers these cosy fall days, the sun warm but the wind a chilly breeze, leaves falling off the trees and crunching under the unsuspecting wheels of his bike as he rides down the block of a quiet neighbourhood, no kids out playing and no hoards of townsfolk barricading the sidewalk with a seemingly endless supply of balloons. He thinks he would prefer to never see another balloon in his _life_.

There’s a tire swing hanging from a large tree opposite the row of houses, empty and alone, swaying slightly in the gentle winds, and Bill brings his bike to a slow stop at the bottom of the hill. He nudges the kickstand out with his foot, carefully, a vague memory of how Stan would always, _always_, rest his bike on the kickstand instead of just tossing it on the floor like all the other Losers would do, and he shakes his head fondly while clambering to the top of the small mound.

He wonders, vaguely, as he climbs into the tire and lets himself get comfortable, if he has time for this— if by _“go find your token representative of your time in Derry”_, Mikey had actually meant _“go sit in a tire swing built for children and stare at the sky for a while”_, because that’s exactly what Bill is currently doing. He’s a little upset that he _actually_ fits into the tire, in all honesty, though there’s a small sense of pride to be had when considering that Richie has only been picking on _Eddie_ for his short height so far.

A few leaves fall down from the tree above him, clearly knocked from their branches with the twisting and turning of the swing, and the brick red and burnt orange blur in Bill’s vision for a moment before the wind takes them away, gliding down the hill and into a storm drain on the opposite side of the street.

_Storm drain_.

Bill goes cold, suddenly frozen despite the warm sun cutting in through the gaps of the tree branches.

It’s so vivid in his mind, like _he_ was there instead of Georgie on that day, peering down into the drain and watching those yellow eyes stare back at him, rain falling onto the ground around him and droplets hitting his shivering body as a white hand slowly stretches out of the abyss to wrap around his wrist; it _should_ have been him, he thinks. No, he _knows_ it should have been him.

He can’t pass a single drain in this town without thinking about it, without suddenly _being_ there, feeling the cold clutch of something otherworldly around his arm, the sound of the storm and the cracks of lightning and the deep, taunting rumble of a voice, calling out to him and reminding him that it’s _his_ fault, that he’s a bad brother, that Georgie died because of him— and it’s true, after all, because he _did_, but Bill blinks away the tears starting to form in his eyes and lets his feet kick idly against the ground as he turns away from the street.

There’s nothing on the other side of the hill besides more trees, tall and beautiful, and he tries, _tries_, to think about anything else besides his brother, knowing that _It_ is going to inevitably make him suffer more as the day progresses.

His mind drifts at the distant sound of children playing, happily calling out to each other, and he remembers back when it was actually safe for him and the Losers to play out on the street, back before Georgie. There were only four of them back then—just him, Richie, Eds, and Stan—but they would still always manage to have a good time, confident and secure within their small group when they were constantly hanging out at the barrens; some days it was pure chaos, endless bickering and non-stop teasing whenever Richie was feeling particularly _loud_, but other days were quiet and calm, with Stan sitting casually on a rock as he points out some of the specific flowers growing around them, Richie splashing idly in the lake while Bill and Eddie would share snacks and listen to the conversation.

Though not perfect, Derry was at least _nice_, once.

A sudden noise makes Bill jump, loud and shrill but not unfamiliar, and he quickly fishes his phone out of his pocket from his awkward position of being almost stuck in a tire swing built for _children_.

“H-hello?” He’s out of breath as he clambers out of the swing, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

It’s not like he needs to when he gets a recognisable _gagging_ noise on the other end of the line.

“Bill? Bill! Oh, thank God, _finally_— no one else was picking up and—” Eddie coughs again, “I need you, need your help, I can’t fucking do this, oh my _God_—”

“Eddie,” Bill nearly—_nearly_—falls down the small hill when he loses his footing in a rush to get to his bike, “what’s going on? Where are you?”

He kicks up the stand on his bike, keeping his feet on the floor as he listens, because he doesn’t exactly trust himself to steer and be on the phone at the same time, especially not with the precarious condition that Silver is in after 27 years of collecting dust.

“It’s so gross man, _so_ fucking gross, that goddamn leper, it— I’m gonna throw up, I can’t— I’m at Keene’s, holy shit.”

“Right. Just w-w—” Bill pauses, tries again, “just _wait_ there, I’m coming to get you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, because it’s Eddie, and whatever situation he’s in right now he’s either going to panic down the phone or panic out loud in public, and Bill is in a hurry to actually just fucking get to him and _prevent_ any more panicking.

The roads are still busy, maybe even _more_ so than they were a short while ago, and the notable increase of red balloons dotted amongst the crowds sends a knowing shiver down Bill’s spine, a wave of anger bubbling up inside of him at being taunted like this. He takes a few of the alleys and side-streets, avoiding the parade floats and packed sidewalks, eternally thankful that Silver can still keep up the pace needed to help save his friends again.

Keene’s Pharmacy isn’t too far from here, Bill remembers it from far too many trips when they were kids, destination memorised from almost every part of town thanks to the endless visits that Eddie would have to— it hits him suddenly that Eddie is there right now, that he must have wandered back to it while looking for his token because that’s what _It_ does, dragging them all back to some of their worst memories and making them live through them again as if they’re really there. He pedals faster and ignores the small protesting squeak from his brakes.

When he gets there, he wastes no time in bothering with the kickstand this time, throwing his bike to the ground before taking off down the street as he follows the trail of dark liquid splattered along the sidewalk. He can’t place what it is, exactly, but the crowds of people don’t seem to notice or care for it at all, and Bill _prays_ it isn’t blood, not when there’s this much of it; he rounds a corner into an alley, finding Eddie pacing and retching and drenched in _something_.

“Bill!” He visibly relaxes, shoulders dropping and frown softening as he talks, “thank you, oh thank fucking _God_, man. I thought I was gonna have to walk back like this, and I _can’t_, I just— I’d hug you right now but I don’t—”

“Yeah, no,” Bill shakes his head quickly, putting his hands up protectively and then motioning for Eddie to follow him out of the alley, “c-come on.”

Eddie follows wordlessly, right on Bill’s heels for the entire short walk back to where he’d dropped his bike and where it luckily _still_ remains. He picks it up as Eddie loudly smacks a hand against his forehead.

“_Bill_,” he scrunches his face up, “what happened to your fucking _car?_ What’s with the bike, dude? Is this the same— where’d you even _find_ this?”

Bill pauses, looking down at said bike, before looking back up at Eddie—and oh, _right_. Eddie, covered head-to-toe in mysterious black sludge, something that smells rancid and his own gagging doesn’t exactly _help_ the situation, but Bill shrugs awkwardly as he steadies the bike.

“Just— get on the back,” he settles himself on the seat, glancing over his shoulder to watch Eddie nervously step onto the stunt pegs, “and _hold on_.”

He feels hands grab gently at his waist, not yet holding on properly, but Bill trusts that Eddie isn’t a _complete_ idiot. He starts to pedal, slowly, and only when Eddie readjusts his grip and wraps his arms completely around Bill’s waist does he finally pick up the pace to try and get them back to the townhouse already.

It’s still just as hectic as a ride back, too many people getting in their way when they’re in an obvious hurry, but the wind catches in Bill’s hair and he can’t help but let out a loud laugh when Eddie shouts an annoyed _“move out the fuckin’ way!”_ to _whoever_ happens to be in their path, adults and children alike; for a moment, it’s like they’re kids again, when they would spend their time doing nothing but ride down hills and speed through empty roads, Eddie’s chest rumbling against Bill’s back as he laughs along, and it’s almost enough to forget about everything else for a brief second.

The moment dies as soon as they get back and Bill remembers that the dampness of his flannel isn’t sweat or rain or anything else plausible— it’s _vomit_, as he recalls Eddie telling him on the phone, and he sort of wishes he had actually thought about that before taking the bike to pick him up. He could have _maybe_ detoured back to grab his car. Bill props Silver up on the wall of the townhouse before quickly rushing in after Eddie.

Ben is sat on the staircase, expression confused but also mildly disgusted, and Bill understands.

“W-where is everyone?” He asks, and Ben gestures vaguely.

“Beverly is upstairs, and Richie’s in there,” he points towards the open lounge doors, “planning another escape—”

Richie, most likely hearing his name or perhaps just investigating the commotion, because he _has_ always been incredibly nosy, wanders out into the lobby with a drink in his hand. He almost drops it when he spots Eddie.

“Holy _shit_,” he rushes over, eyes wide behind his glasses, “what happened to you?”

Bill isn’t sure why Eddie hasn’t immediately took off to the bathroom, and Bill _also_ isn’t sure if he should be stood here for this, considering Richie is looking at Eddie with an abundance of worry, and Ben is looking at Bill with a face that accurately conveys _“we should leave”._

He makes to move but Eddie steps in front of him and points a finger accusingly at Richie.

“Why didn’t you answer your fucking phone, dickhead?” He swings his arms out dramatically and Bill narrowly sidesteps getting hit with a bile-covered jacket sleeve. “Look at us! I got fucking threw up on by that— that goddamn _leper_, _It_, and I had to call Bill and he only has his bike and I—”

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat, audible and loud, and he starts to wheeze in that all-too-familiar way that makes everyone around him immediately panic. Richie moves first, and Bill watches him; he carelessly drops his drink onto the nearest surface and doesn’t bother to watch if it falls or not—it _doesn’t_, thankfully—before darting forward again, a soft murmur of _“breathe, Eds”_ as he rests one hand on his shoulder, the other reaching into Eddie’s jacket pocket to pull out his inhaler and quickly shove it into Eddie’s hand.

He shakes it, hurriedly inhales the air, and lets out a deep sigh after a few seconds. Richie still has a hand on his shoulder.

“My phone’s dead, dude,” he says eventually, grinning a lopsided smile, and then shrugs, “at least you got back _and_ managed to cover Bill in gross slime.”

He smiles past Eddie, smirking at Bill, and Bill casually flips him off before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I thought I was gonna die, Rich,” Eddie gives an obvious sigh of relief, significantly calmer than he’s been in the past hour.

“But you _didn’t_,” Richie offers.

The look he gives Eddie is _agonizingly_ sincere, something sweet and genuine and full of _longing_, a look that Bill has wrote about time after time in his novels when discussing topics of romance and true love— and he thinks, now, that he _definitely_ shouldn’t be witnessing this, feeling all kinds of invasive regarding _whatever_ it is that look means. It’s none of his business.

(It’s still nice to think about, that maybe there’s moments of _good_ in all of this stress, and Bill can’t see Eddie’s responding expression from where he’s stood awkwardly to his side, but the slight twitch of his cheek is enough to show that he’s at least smiling back.)

Richie steps back when Eddie starts to tug at his jacket, actions _frantic_ despite his calm presence mere seconds ago, and Ben snorts out a laugh when the sleeve gets caught on his hand and Eddie has to shake it off, not wanting to touch the mess more than he’s already had to. He mutters a quiet _“shut the fuck up”_, a slightly amused edge to it, and finally gets his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor and then cautiously picking it up between two fingers.

“Oh _God_,” he groans, looking down at himself, and starts speed-walking towards the stairs, “I’m gonna need like, an hour-long shower. A _two-hour_ long shower. _Fuck_, someone get me some bleach, or something.”

Ben quickly moves out of the way of the staircase, completely out of Eddie’s way by approximately a _mile_, stepping to the other side of the lobby as Eddie mumbles to himself and begins almost _running_ up the stairs. Richie rolls his eyes at Bill, giving a casual shrug with his hands in his pockets, and then moves to follow up the stairs.

They stop when they’re on the second-floor landing—Richie bumps into Eddie’s back and knocks his glasses askew slightly, fixing them as he continues walking—and Eddie glances down over the bannister.

“Thanks, Bill,” he nods, “for the ride.”

Bill returns the nod, giving a small smile, and Eddie turns back towards the landing before wandering down the hall.

Ben nudges Bill’s shoulder with his own, about to speak, but there’s a sudden and recognizable _yell_ coming from the bathroom. He closes his mouth as they both glance up towards the ceiling, listening closely to the muffled laughter.

“_Richie!_” Eddie’s voice cuts through it, annoyed and _startled_, “you’re such an _asshole_! What’s so fucking funny about that? Knock it off, dickwad!”

There’s another laugh, Richie again, a loud and joyous cackle this time, and Bill lets out an amused sigh at the small _thud_ that jostles the floor of the old building.

At his side, Ben shakes his head fondly, and the two of them head into the lounge to fill each other in on the happenings of their day.

* * *

The sun has started to set over the town, sky shifting from a bright and clear blue to a hazy orange, blends of pink and red draping over the buildings that are visible from the window of the townhouse lounge. It’s _beautiful_, seemingly uncharacteristic of Derry given everything else about the town, but it’s true.

Smoke starts to cloud her vision, painting the landscape with a dark and dreary smear of grey, and Bev promptly snaps out of her daydreaming to tap her cigarette against the small glass ashtray resting in her hands.

She’s currently lounging in the bay window, knees pulled up to her chest as she sits in the space that is _certainly_ not designed for sitting, a vase of old and dried flowers pushed to the far end of the wooden bay so that she can comfortably rest without fear of knocking them over; her cigarette starts to burn out after another inhale, ash almost falling onto her clothes, and she casually stubs it out with a small sigh.

The townhouse is uncomfortably quiet. Bill had gone back out not long after dropping Eddie back, resuming his quest of finding his token, and Eddie is undoubtedly still showering or scrubbing away at the grime that apparently covered him head-to-toe. Bev is sort of glad she didn’t actually see it, but Rich had told her that it smelled _awful_, comparing it to various scents that she didn’t actually have a reference for and would rather not think about; he had eventually gone out too, a casual but genuine comment of _“I’m not trying to bail, seriously, I just wanna grab something to eat, there’s like, no fuckin’ food around here_” before he swung his car keys around on his finger, dropped them, and then awkwardly rushed out of the inn.

There’s a sudden knock on the lounge doors and Bev jumps slightly, twisting around to look at the intrusion.

“Just me,” Ben says, holding his hands up and smiling gently, “what are you doing in here?”

She returns the smile as she shuffles in her seat, dropping her feet to the floor and leaning back against the window. Ben slowly wanders towards her.

“Oh, _you know_,” she tilts her head, “trying not to think about the murderous clown, and all of that stuff.”

Ben huffs out a small laugh while sitting down on the bay, a comfortable gap of space between the two of them, and then leans back to rest his weight on his palms. He looks at her, expression warm, and there’s something about it that makes Bev feel _safe_, at ease, her thoughts genuinely drifting from the horror of Derry and to somewhere nicer; back to the memories of being a child again, when things were still terrible and shitty but she could _escape_ _it_, spend time with the Losers and with Ben, feeling respected and cared for and _loved_.

She thinks back to her token, the postcard folded neatly in her back pocket, stained with blood and withered with age but the poem still a pleasant reminder that _someone_ had thought of her as special once.

(“_No one will ever love you like I do, Bevvie,_” Tom screams out to her, “_you need me!_”)

Her hands shake slightly where she’s still resting the ashtray on her thighs, and she leans forward to put it down on a nearby tabletop.

She goes to talk, to ask Ben about his artefact, because she knows he left to find it but she hasn’t actually seen it or heard him mention it at all, but her mouth snaps shut at the loud _bang_ suddenly reverberating from the upstairs landing; she happens to jump, instinctually scared, and Ben quickly rests a reassuring hand on her forearm, gentle and cautious and making sure not to linger near the fading bruises around her wrists.

“Stay here, I’ll go lo—”

“Guys?!” Eddie’s yell pierces through the silence, loud and panicked, and Bev immediately jumps to her feet.

The two of them practically run out of the lounge, Ben heading up the steps two at a time in a rush to get to the second-floor, and Bev follows closely behind him— an anxious scream forces its way out of her throat when she reaches the top of the stairs.

There’s blood _everywhere_, the familiar dark liquid smeared along the wall in misshapen handprints, pools of it trailing across the ground and droplets splattered around where Eddie is slumped down in the corridor, legs splayed out in front of him and the blood pouring from his face.

“Bowers is in my room,” he says, gargled and constricted, and looks up at Bev with a slightly _amused_ twinkle in his eyes.

Ben gives her a look, a silent _“stay here”_, and then rushes down the hall. She stays, _of course_, dropping to her knees and ignoring the thud against the floor as she crawls over to Eddie’s side, hands slipping in the blood and shaking again when she slowly lifts them to his cheek; the wound is completely cut through, a huge hole through the flesh showing the inside of his mouth when he moves his jaw, and her worry must have evidently shown itself on her face.

“Is it bad?” Eddie asks, nervous, reaching a hand up to feel, and Bev quickly pushes it away.

She hesitates to answer, pinching the folds of skin together over the hole, and he instantly lets out a panicked _whine_ when she grimaces.

Ben returns a few seconds later, looking appropriately stressed, and waves a bloody hand back towards the bathroom.

“The window’s smashed,” he says, “I saw Bowers down in the parking lot, he took off in his car though.” He looks down at Eddie and frowns. “Is he okay?”

Eddie gives a weak laugh, spluttering on the blood pooling in his mouth, and wraps his sticky fingers around Bev’s hand. She squeezes back as she looks up at Ben.

“We have to do something,” she glances around the hall, “we need to— we should stitch him up, at least—”

“_No_,” Eddie blurts out, coughing for a second before shaking his head and moving to kneel, “no fucking _way_ are either of you coming near me with a needle and fucking thread— take me to the hospital, we’re going to the goddamn hospital.”

He tries to get up, feet slipping out from under him when he steps in a puddle of blood, and Ben quickly moves to wrap an arm around his waist and throw one of Eddie’s arms over his shoulders, hoisting him up on his feet and carefully holding him still.

“We don’t have time, Eds—”

“Where’s Richie?” He cuts Bev off, slowly stepping forward, “Rich’ll take me to the hospital.”

She sighs, heart tightening in her chest when she mumbles out a soft _“he’s not here, honey”_, and Ben shakes his head as he starts to guide Eddie to the staircase.

“Come on,” he says, motioning for Bev to follow, “it won’t take long. You _know_ Eddie’s an A-lister at the hospital here, we’ll be in and out in no time.”

Eddie chokes on a laugh at that, tipping his head back and almost stumbling down the stairs if it wasn’t for Ben’s careful hold around his waist, and Bev can’t help the little grin she gives while trailing cautiously behind them, making sure not to slip on any fresh droplets of blood.

They make it to the hospital relatively quickly, busy streets considered. Bev sits in the back of Ben’s car with her jacket balled up and pressed against Eddie’s face, listening to him try to ramble through the injury, a stuffy mumble of _“I literally just got fucking clean and now I’m covered in shit again, oh my God”_ while she shushes him and runs a comforting hand through his damp hair.

She’s sure that they’re a _mess_ when they burst through the ER doors, all eyes suddenly on them; Eddie with blood dripping from his face, not so bad now but still smeared down his jaw and chest where it leaks from the gaping hole in his cheek, Ben carrying his weight and calling frantically to the doctors and nurses, and Bev following anxiously behind as she pulls at her tank-top, sticky from Eddie leaning his head against her.

Someone takes Eddie from Ben’s grip immediately, wrapping her own arms around him as she mumbles something inaudible, and it’s only a few more seconds before several other staff members arrive to take a drowsy and nervously giggling Eddie into the nearest available emergency room.

Bev sits down, exhausted and stressed, letting herself drop heavily into one of the waiting room chairs, uncomfortable but not at all _bothered_ right now. Her legs feel dead, jeans tight where they shrunk slightly with the wetness of the blood on her thighs, and she stares down distractedly at her red-stained hands; she follows the liquid where it splatters along her forearms, dotted around the taunting bruises that remind her of Manhattan, and then glances past her shaking hands to take in her clothes, tank-top now dyed a muddy orange where it used to be white.

A bump at her side startles her, and Ben frowns apologetically.

“I gave the doctors all of the information they need,” he says, calm and collected, “they have his records, _obviously_. It shouldn’t take too long, just a few stitches, luckily.”

She nods silently.

The ER is loud and draining, filled with people talking and rushing around, the distant sound of machinery beeping and humming in the background, and Bev’s hands only stop shaking when Ben gently joins their palms, intertwining their fingers and giving her a reassuring smile; she grins back and moves to comfortably rest her head on his shoulder, feeling a little bit more relaxed now.

For the next half-hour, nurses wander in and out of the room that they had taken Eddie into, giving Bev and Ben small nods each time they pass by and then returning back to his room with a different clipboard or file, and time passes slowly but without negative interference for once— Bev’s phone buzzes loudly in her pocket and she sits up to pull it from her jeans.

“Hel—”

“Where are you?” Richie interrupts, voice frantic, “are you okay? There’s fucking— fucking _blood_ everywhere at the inn and I can’t find— is Eddie okay?”

She stands up, giving Ben a nonchalant glance, and then puts her finger in her ear to hear the phone clearer before wandering a few steps away.

“Rich,” she cuts off his rambling, “we’re all _fine_. Eddie’s with me and Ben, at the hospital, but he’s alright, don’t worry.”

Reassuring him that Eddie is fine is _obviously_ a top priority. Bev remembers the day that Richie had told her he was gay, and she also fondly remembers the day he had revealed his crush on none other than _Eds_, a sudden but sweet confession as she spun around in his desk chair and listened to him ramble. She didn’t want to tell him that she had assumed as much—_especially_ after an entire evening of blatantly staring at Eddie, Richie’s cheeks going pink whenever he was caught looking or whenever Eddie smiled at him—but she had told him anyway; he just groaned in response, throwing his hands over his eyes, and mumbling a muffled “_am I that obvious?_”.

Richie laughs dryly on the other end of the line.

“You can’t say _hospital_ and then tell me not to worry, Bev.”

As if on cue, Eddie is escorted out of the nearby room, Bev’s jacket folded neatly in his arms as he talks idly to the doctor walking beside him.

“He’s fine,” she fondly rolls her eyes at the annoyed sigh she hears down the line, “no, _seriously_, he’s walking towards us now.”

Ben stands up to take the jacket from his hands, keeping it folded, and Bev chuckles softly as she takes in the state of Eddie; t-shirt stained black with dried blood, the shoulders of his hoodie also covered in some of the mess, and a wad of gauze taped perfectly to the side of his cheek.

He raises an eyebrow at her, nodding to the phone, and she mouths back a silent _“Richie”_— Eddie quickly makes a grabbing motion with his hands, ridiculously childish, and Bev tries not to laugh as she passes her phone over to him.

“Hey Rich,” he winces as he presses the phone against his cheek, switching it to the other side, “_huh_? Fuck off—”

Bev links an arm with Ben, pulling at him to walk a few feet down the corridor, giving a teasing grin at the way he rolls his eyes as the two of them _knowingly_ decide to leave Eddie to his conversation. The _least_ they can give him after he gets stabbed in the face is a little privacy, even if he _is_ using Bev’s phone.

It only takes a few minutes apparently, because Eddie soon strolls over to the two of them and hands the phone back, eyeing them for a second before absently fidgeting with the drawstring of his dirty hoodie.

“I’m cleared to leave,” he says, shrugging, “we should probably go join up with Mikey.”

Ben furrows his eyebrows and points vaguely at Eddie.

“Don’t you want to get some fresh clothes first?”

Eddie visibly relaxes, heaving out a loud sigh and then rubbing carefully at his eyes.

“Oh, thank _God_,” he laughs, “_yes_, holy fuck. I’m so tired of today, man. I think I’m gonna _die_ if I get like, one more drop of blood or vomit or whatever-the-fuck-else on me.”

Bev stiffens at that. It’s just a figure of speech, a _joke_, nothing more and nothing less, but endless flashbacks and memories—_premonitions_, perhaps—start to play in front of her eyes as if she’s really there; the room darkening around her as it shifts and changes into a _cave_, damp and cold and lurking with a force she can’t quite place, Eddie sprawled out on the ground at her feet, pale and not moving and surrounded by a slowly-growing puddle of bright red blood—

“_Beverly_?”

Ben softly calls her name as Eddie places a hand on her shoulder and she suddenly snaps out of her daze, blinding hospital lights glaring back at her from where she stands in the middle of the busy ER waiting room. She blinks rapidly to push back the tears threatening to fall and then smiles wryly.

“Come on,” she grabs Eddie’s hand and loops her other arm with Ben’s, “I _hate_ hospitals. No offence, Eds.”

He shakes his head, muttering a quiet “_fuck off_”, and the three of them quickly make their leave.

It’s no surprise to find Richie back at the townhouse and waiting for them— or, arguably, waiting for _Eddie_. As soon as they get through the front door, he jumps up from where he’s sitting at the bottom of the staircase, rushing over and then coming to a sudden stop in front of them. His hand moves slowly towards Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie smacks it away.

“Don’t even _think_ about it, asshole.”

“Does it hurt?” Richie asks, sincere, and tilts his head as he looks contemplatively at the bandage, “you look _badass_, dude. For once in your life.”

Eddie shoves him in the shoulder, ignoring his laughter and offering back an annoyed _“of course it fucking hurts, I got stabbed in the face!_” as he hurries to the stairs, and Richie easily follows behind him like it’s to be expected; with the way Eddie doesn’t bother reacting or telling him to wait, maybe it _is_ just to be expected, and Bev ducks her head to hide an amused grin.

Richie hesitates on the landing, peering down over the banister with his arms folded casually atop it.

“By the way, Bill came back,” he shrugs, “said something about a _festival_, and some kid? I don’t fuckin’ know. He took off in a hurry.”

And then he _leaves_, wandering off down the hallway after Eddie. Bev hears Ben sigh from behind her.

“Mikey’s gonna kill us,” he says, certain, and Bev lets out a small laugh.

“Oh, _definitely_.”

* * *

Richie being sad is a sight that not very many people get to witness. He hardly ever shows his _real_ bad moods to anyone; his usual anxiety and nervousness is easy to spot behind his fast-paced rambling and spitfire jokes, most of which are weak and covered with a blatantly fake laugh, but his _genuine_ sadness—face flush with anger, glasses foggy from the tears welling up in his eyes, a tepid silence—he reserves that for very few people.

_Stan_ is one of those people.

They’re in the clearing in the woods, avoiding the barrens on Richie’s confession of _“I can’t be around anyone else right now_”, and Stan would say that he minds being out here but he _doesn’t_. It’s a nice day, warm and sunny, and there’re enough trees around for him to glance up and look at the birds whenever he finds himself bored— Richie seems to be _incredibly_ bored. He kicks his feet against the ground, digging the toe of his worn-down converse into the mud, and then sighing heavily when he resumes his quiet pacing back-and-forth. Stan has been letting him huff and puff for almost an hour now, watching him carefully and feeling a brief sense of _annoyance_ every time Richie will turn, point a finger as he opens his mouth to speak, and then promptly decides against it, shaking his head and continuing to tear up the grass with his shoes. It’s getting _beyond_ distracting.

This is how he gets when he’s upset, quiet and in his own head, no doubt overthinking even the simplest of things. If Bev were here, he’d be smoking a cigarette with her and trying to convince Stan to smoke along with them, ignoring his protests until he finally gave in and took one; if only to shut them both up, and subconsciously knowing that it brought a little smile to Richie’s face when the three of them would hang out and smoke together.

“Rich,” Stan leans back on the grass, wiping a dirt stain off his knee and then looking up at where Richie has stopped pacing, _listening_, “what’s going on with you?”

He seems to consider it for a second, face scrunching up behind his glasses, and then he quickly turns and points accusingly at Stan. _Here it comes_. Stan prepares himself for the oncoming rant that is _undoubtedly_ going to be about Bill, given that all Richie seems to talk about lately is _“stupid Bill and his stupid haircut and his stupid flannel shirts, trying to get us killed_”. It’s tiring.

“Do you like anyone?” He blurts out, sudden, and Stan… wasn’t expecting that. In fact, out of _everything_ he could ever expect, a romance-based heart-to-heart with Richie Tozier has never really even crossed his mind.

“Like, girls,” Richie continues, frantic, “do you like a girl?”

That’s needlessly specific. Stan tilts his head as he frowns, and then pushes his curls out of his eyes.

“I don’t know any girls besides Bev,” he answers, genuinely, and shrugs, “why? Don’t tell me that the infamous lady-killer Richie Tozier is having _girl problems_.”

He says it lightly, obviously joking around, but Richie stiffens and Stan takes in a breath.

“_Oh_,” he glances down, resting his hands awkwardly on his knees and staring distractedly at his neatly-trimmed fingernails, “sorry.”

A short silence falls over them. The wind breezes through the clearing, a quiet but audible gust, and the leaves rustle in the trees while a few birds fly out of their nests and flock upwards into the blue sky.

“I’m—” Richie stops, cutting himself off as he shakes his head.

He stays silent for another minute, _a new record_, and then huffs out a sigh as he sits down opposite Stan; not too far away, but just close enough that when he stretches his legs out, they align side-by-side, and the brush of Richie’s cold legs against Stan’s own sends a slight shiver down his spine.

“I need you to promise to keep all of this a secret, Stan,” Richie refuses to look at him as he talks, “I fuckin’ mean it.”

In a natural moment of defiance, Stan wants to argue that he has never, _never_ spilled a secret in his entire life, not _once_, but he thinks, given everything, that this isn’t the time to be picking such a miniscule fight. Richie is rarely serious, even when he _is_ sad, because most of his bad moods start with tears and silence but quickly dissolve into laughs and jokes— this isn’t one of those moods. This is something else, something _bigger_ than all the other bullshit, bigger than his stupid fight with Bill and their near-death experiences with that fucking clown, bigger than Derry itself.

Stan holds his hand out.

“I promise,” he says, bending all of his fingers but his pinkie, and Richie gives him a shy smile as he briefly links their fingers together.

He pulls away and then sighs again, deep and heavy, and Stan wants to bring up all the times that Richie has made fun of him for acting “_old_” and enjoying “_borin’ old-people hobbies_”, because now he’s sat here sighing like a melodramatic 40-year-old.

“There’s…” he hesitates again and then smacks his own cheeks gently, whispering an almost silent “_get it together Trashmouth_”, and then starts over. “There’s this boy. At the arcade.”

Stan blinks.

Richie stays silent, staring back at him, and upon getting no response but a raised eyebrow, he continues on.

“I mean— he’s nice. We play _Street Fighter_ a lot, together, and he’s actually like, surprisingly good at it? Better than _you_, anyways—” He laughs slightly at Stan’s scowl before going quiet. “I… I think I like him.”

His cheeks are tinged pink, not red with anger or from crying, and his eyes are focused on his shaky hands in his lap— oh. _Oh_.

Stan smiles fondly to himself, knowing that Richie isn’t looking but not able to help himself regardless. It’s _sweet_. Richie has never been this soft when it comes to affection, only rarely showing a gentler side with Eddie when he thinks no one else is looking— which suddenly hits Stan like a _brick_. That’s _certainly_ something. He doesn’t bring it up or dwell on it, it’s for Richie to share, only if he wants to.

“That’s nice, Rich,” he says, genuinely meaning it but struggling to find the right thing to say. Is that… _appropriate_? Should he say more? He opens his mouth again but pauses when hearing Richie sniff, and oh shit, oh _fuck_, what has he _done_—

“Funny thing is,” Richie rubs a hand under his glasses, palm coming away visibly damp, “turns out he’s Bowers’ fuckin’ _cousin_.”

He glares at nothing, staring distantly at a tree to his right.

“They don’t really like freaks like me.”

Something churns in Stan’s stomach. He feels it bubble, clawing at his chest and stretching around his lungs, tight, and it’s anger, he’s _angry_; not at Richie, _never_ at Richie, but _for_ Richie. On _behalf_ of Richie. He nudges his foot sideways—accidentally a little harder than he intended—to kick against Richie’s thigh, and ignores the annoyed _“ow, what the fuck, Stanley?_” he gets in response. He glowers and points a finger.

“You’re not a freak,” he says, tone sharp, “you’re a loser, and a pretty big one at that, but you’ll never _ever_ be a freak, Richie.”

Across from him, Richie just blinks dumbly, eyes wide behind his slightly foggy glasses, and then breaks into a dorky grin as a few more tears slide down his cheeks. He wipes at them quickly, backs of his hands knocking his glasses askew, and he sniffles weakly.

“I think you might be the biggest loser of us all, Stan The Man,” he chokes out a small laugh, “what kind of person drags someone to hang out in the woods so they can go _birdwatching_?”

“It’s a common hobby,” Stan retorts, monotone and casual as he refrains from reminding Richie that _he’s_ always the one who wants to hang out in the woods.

The silence settles over them again, comfortable this time, and in his periphery, Stan watches Richie slowly reach a hand towards him before he eventually decides against it and pulls it back; Stan huffs, amused, lets out a whisper of “_dumbass_”, and takes Richie’s hand in his own. Like the rest of him, it’s fucking _cold_.

They sit like this for a few wonderfully quiet minutes, awkwardly stretched across to hold each other’s hand, and it’s only when Richie gives one last sniff and nods his head do they finally start to laugh, small giggles at first that quickly turn into loud snorts and joyous cackles, carefree and content and like the air around them has never been fresher. Their hands disconnect as they fall down onto the grass, lying on their backs and staring up at the clouds, and Stan feels the dirt start to nestle in his hair and clutch to the fabric of his clothes but he doesn’t fucking _care_.

Richie kicks his foot against Stan, mimicking his previous gesture, and starts to clamber up onto his elbows. His shadow blocks out the sun from Stan’s eyes, thankfully.

“_Y’know_,” he starts, voice worryingly chipper, and Stan isn’t sure he _wants_ to know whatever is about to leave Richie’s smirking mouth, “he looks a little like you, actually.”

Stan shuffles to sit up too.

“Who?”

“The boy, from the arcade?” Richie beams, laughing, “come on, you should be flattered, Stanley!”

There’s a faint burning sensation creeping up Stan’s face—_as there reasonably should be_, he thinks, _anyone would blush at such a remark_—and he dismissively rolls his eyes.

“I’m not,” he bites back a grin at Richie’s offended scoff, “but thank you. I think I understand the sentiment.”

They eventually leave the clearing, picking up their bikes from where they had left them earlier, Richie’s flung haphazardly on the ground and Stan’s parked neatly against a tree, and chatter casually between themselves as they walk home— in which _home_ is back to Richie’s place, an abrupt decision made in the last few minutes, because Stan is finally, _finally_ ungrounded from the infamous, highly-criminal _bar mitzvah incident_.

Their sudden and impromptu plans seem to clash with _different_ plans, plans that Stan was not involved in or aware of, and it’s actually not all that surprising to round the corner of Richie’s street and spot Eddie sitting on the curb of the sidewalk in front of his house.

He looks up when they stop in front of him, their shadows painted on the ground with the setting of the evening sun, and quickly jumps to his feet.

“Richie, what the _fuck_,” he starts, ignoring Stan completely, which is appreciated, in all honesty, “where have you been, asshole? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We were supposed to hang out— or did you _forget_?”

Stan looks over at Richie, feigning an unimpressed glare to hide his amusement, and Richie gawks between them both like he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on. Really, given his general lack of braincells and common sense, he most likely _doesn’t_ have any idea what’s going on.

(Stan considers, for a second, that it’s unsurprising for Richie to have forgotten about previous arrangements. He hasn’t exactly been in the _best_ of moods lately. You can’t blame him.)

“I was with Stan!” He splutters out, and Stan frantically shakes his head, mouthing a silent _“what the fuck?”,_ because Eddie quickly turns to glare at _him_ now. _Great_.

“Oh, okay, _I_ get it, so you bail on me to hang out with Stan instead? What were you doing? Playing chess?”

Stan is mildly offended. Richie doesn’t have _nearly_ enough attention span for chess— they’ve tried.

Richie chokes on a laugh, an ugly snort, and then pretends to scratch at his face to cover his grin when Eddie turns on him with a frown, mouth already open and about to complain _again_ when Stan cuts him off. He’s had enough bickering here to last him the _week_.

“Eddie, calm down,” he sighs, “we’re here, so let’s just hang out now.”

In the background, Stan watches idly as Richie’s dad wanders out of the house—apparently taking the trash out, if the garbage bag in his hand is anything to go by—and he soon notices the boys loitering at the edge of the front yard, waving his free hand and calling out to them. Stan gives a small wave back as Richie throws him a thumbs up, and Eddie spins around to glance at Mr Tozier before turning back.

He kicks his foot against the curb and picks at a loose chip of plaster on his cast. The red V is brighter today, _fresher_, like he’s recently coloured over it.

“Do you wanna stay over, Eds?” Richie asks, gesturing vaguely to Stan, “my parents won’t mind. Stan’s already stayin’ over, so it’s fine.”

Stan ducks his head to hide his grin, constantly entertained by the way Richie will happily involve people in plans without pausing to even _think_ about asking anyone else; he doesn’t mind it at all, and that’s the funniest part. Richie knows him too well— which is a terrifying thought, actually, because _Richie Tozier_ knowing things about you is probably a sure-fire way to end up in some kind of trouble. It’s inevitable.

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie shrugs, previous annoyance forgotten like _that_, “my mom’s _super_ mad at me anyways, so the damage has already been done, right?”

Richie chuckles while Stan huffs out a small laugh. That explains his previous outburst from only moments ago. Eddie gets _freakishly_ stressed when his mom is nagging at him, and it’s been happening way more often since he broke his arm. The fact that he was subsequently _banned_ from hanging out with any of the Losers was just the proverbial cherry on top, and Eddie has been considerably wild—_more so than usual_—since the ban was “_lifted_”; a decision made after Eddie was constantly sneaking out regardless, and probably strongly-influenced by the incredibly persuasive nature of Richie, of whom Ms Kaspbrak has a particular soft spot for. Stan doesn’t, and has _never_, understood it. Richie is the _most_ annoying one out of _all_ of them.

As if reading his mind, Richie grins, lopsided and dorky, and hoists his bike up onto the sidewalk.

“Well, come on then!” He nods towards his house, “tally-ho, fellas!”

_Point proven_.

Eddie follows behind him, shaking his head, and Stan reluctantly pushes his bike along.

“I’m changing my mind by the second,” he mumbles, and Eddie turns to smile at him with a muffled laugh.

Richie’s parents, _as always_, don’t mind the intrusion. The Tozier’s are sweet and kind, constantly welcoming whenever Stan or the other Losers will show up at their door uninvited, and Stan wonders how they could _possibly_ deal with having Richie as a son— that’s too harsh, maybe, but he sticks with it, especially when he watches Richie climb on top of one of the kitchen counters to grab the cookie jar that has been _specifically_ moved out of his reach; Eddie whispers a manic stream of _“get down, get the fuck down, Richie”_, and _really_. How could _anyone_ deal with this?

They wind up in his bedroom after stealing the entire jar. Not just a couple of cookies, _no_, but the _entire_ jar, rattling along like Eddie’s stupid fanny pack does, and the three of them immediately settle comfortably into various places around Richie’s room. Richie obviously takes his bed, kicking his muddy shoes off and crawling into the middle of his mess of blankets, bed unmade and looking just like how Stan had seen it two weeks ago. Unsurprisingly, Eddie doesn’t hesitate to sit at his side, legs folded to fit into a smaller space as he leans over Richie’s shoulder and points to a stack of comics on the bedside table.

Stan sits happily on the floor and watches in amusement at all of the things he’s _somehow_ never noticed before. It’s _disgustingly_ cheesy.

Eddie has never had a sense of personal space when it came to Richie, completely avoidant of the other Losers touching him unless they really _must_, but comfortably gluing himself to Richie’s side at every given opportunity; he’s practically lounging across his lap now, feet kicking idly as he talks and gestures wildly with his hands, and Richie holds the comic closer to his own face in a poor attempt at masking the blush evident on the tips of his ears. Stan bites the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh.

After a while, Eddie gets up to go to the bathroom, and Richie wastes no time in hurling his comic across the room. It smacks lightly against Stan’s torso.

“_Hey_,” he shoves it away and wipes at his shirt, “what the fuck, Richie?”

“Knock it off,” Richie snaps back instantly, a finger pointed in warning at Stan.

They glare at each other in a silent, minute-long staring competition, before Stan breaks and decides to innocently gaze around Richie’s room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, eyes roaming over the endless movie posters taped messily to the walls, action figures lying forgotten on the carpet and a stack of books that should have been returned to school _months_ ago.

Down the hall, a toilet flushes, and Richie sighs seriously as he looks at Stan.

“Please don’t say anything to him.”

_Be who you want to be. Be proud_.

Stan gives him a small nod, reassuring.

“I promise.”

* * *

Blinking away the memories, Stan smiles softly to himself as he lets his pen curl around the last few words of his letter to Richie. He laughs weakly when a couple of stray tears drop down onto it, smearing the ink slightly and mottling the paper. He can only imagine some of Richie’s own will _inevitably_ join the mess when he reads it.

(P.S. _Please_ confess to Eddie already. It’s been 27 years, you piece of shit.)

* * *

It’s fall when Eddie Kaspbrak realises he’s always been in love with Richie Tozier.

It’s centred around one unanimous moment, like one huge awakening, followed subsequently by several smaller moments that confirm this is something that’s been lingering under his skin for years and years and _years_; not something sudden, not a startling lifechanging moment of “_I’m in love with him_”, but rather, a calm understanding of “_I’ve always been in love with him_”.

This realisation first hits him in the darkness of that horrible cistern, the damp air seeping through his clothes and itching at his skin, when he’s scared and weak and _struggling_— Richie walks over to him immediately, placing a warm hand on his shoulder and telling him that he’s _brave_, braver than he thinks, and there’s a soft look in his eyes that screams _something_ at Eddie, something that makes him think _oh_.

Above all else, he trusts it, that _look_, he trusts it like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do because it _is_. Eddie has always trusted Richie in his moments of self-doubt. Richie believes in him with such unfiltered admiration that Eddie’s heart skips a beat and his breath catches in his throat and it’s not his asthma for once, it’s something else, something he recognises as only ever having experienced when in the presence of one stupid bespectacled boy, and it takes a second to scour through his brain and place a name to the feeling. _Love_.

He doesn’t mind it.

The moments following quickly after—the memories resurfacing like a tidal wave, recollections of previous times that Richie has managed to tug at Eddie’s heartstrings and knock his entire world off kilter—come when he’s kneeling over Richie’s body on the wet ground of the cave. His pretty brown eyes are open wide behind his cracked glasses, unfocused for a second before he notices Eddie, and his hands suddenly move to wipe the blood from his nose before he settles them on Eddie’s shoulders; he doesn’t give a _shit_ about the blood getting on his clothes again, not anymore, not while he revels in the euphoria of saving Richie’s life. He feels like he’s drowning. It’s fucking _fantastic_.

It’s only ironic, of course, that his own life would happen to flash before his eyes like this, and that the entire life blurring across his vision is primarily of he and Richie. The memories are hazy, nothing but fleeting images and seconds of footage stuck in a loop like an old movie reel flickering in his mind, the label undoubtedly reading something like “_times Richie Tozier made your heart hurt and your cheeks burn: part 3_”; they play endlessly and also all at once, it’s all Eddie can see, all he can _hear_, too transfixed on the blur of a forgotten childhood and a sweet summer crush to feel anything at all besides adoration.

Too distracted—by the curve of Richie’s lips, the reverberation of a laugh pressing against Eddie’s chest, Richie’s hands sticky as they slide from his shoulders to caress his jaw and cradle his injured cheek—to notice the sudden pressure of something pushing against his back— through his chest, now, sharp and hot, warm liquid dripping through his shirt and bubbling up in his throat and spilling out past his lips as he mumbles out a gargled “_Rich_”.

(It doesn’t hurt. Not as much as Richie’s sudden change in expression, like someone had finally slapped the stupid grin off his face, the drops of blood on his glasses obscuring his frantically moving eyes and his mouth opening as he calls a panicked “_Eddie? Eds?_” on repeat; the film reel must be skipping again.)

He can’t remember much after that.

He thinks he might be having a _nightmare_ at one point. That’s not uncommon, really, given that he’s been having regular nightmares weekly for almost 30 years now. He’s weirdly used to it. Everything around him is dark and he’s freezing cold, visions of the cave and the clown and of his friends running and screaming and fighting, an uncomfortable feeling of pain nestled throughout his entire body and he can’t pinpoint where it’s even coming from— so he stops, ignores the muffled sobs and distant calls of his name and just _stops_. Closes his eyes. Tries again.

He dreams this time. It’s nice. He dreams about Richie, and it’s another brief moment of realisation when he remembers that _this_ isn’t uncommon either, that he’s dreamt of Richie before. Dream-Richie takes his hand and intertwines their fingers together, matching gold rings shining in the sunlight, and he smiles that dorky smile, his glasses falling down his nose and messy hair blowing in the wind as he rambles; talks about a house—_their_ house, their _home_—and getting a cat, taking a vacation together to somewhere nice and warm, going on a date out to a fancy restaurant or spending the night in with horror movies and ice-cream. It’s everything that Eddie has ever wanted, things that he’s _always_ known he’s wanted, but now the faceless form in his daydreams has morphed into Richie Tozier and it all clicks into place like the last piece of puzzle. It makes sense. It’s _natural_.

His dream ends, despite Eddie clinging onto it and trying to grab at Richie’s fading hand, and he wakes up. He’s not sure where he is, or how much time has passed, or if he’s even _actually_ awake at all, because he feels weird and lightheaded and Richie is still holding his hand, tight, fingers gripping hard enough to leave little indentations in the flesh.

Eddie blinks once, twice, lifts his free hand to rub at the sleep collecting in his eyes and then immediately hisses when he knocks against something sharp in the back of his hand, what the _fuck_— he pulls his hand away, squinting at it, and then wiggles his fingers just to solidify that _yeah_, there’s a fucking _drip_ taped into his flesh.

An identification band wraps neatly around his wrist a few inches down, the “_Edward Kaspbrak_” staring back at him from where it sits loosely, and Eddie has been in this situation enough times now to instantaneously know where he is. He could probably figure it out by scent alone, because hospitals have that fucking weird smell that reminds him, quite simply, of _death_, and he hates it. He _hates_ hospitals.

The machines in his room beep loudly and rhythmically, no issues there, and amongst all of the wires taped to his body and the drip hanging from his hand and the uncomfortable scratchiness of a hospital gown and the _awful_ hospital bedsheets, Eddie is thankful that at least the fucking _lights_ are turned off. He might have truly lost it if he had woken up in the fucking Derry hospital with a spinning headache and an aching in his chest and the bright-ass fluorescent lights _blinding_ _him_.

His motions seem to stir Richie awake. The room is dim but not completely dark, slivers of moonlight creeping in through a gap at the bottom of the blinds, and Eddie can see every detail of Richie’s tired face in their proximity; his eyes are wide and red-rimmed behind his dirty glasses, dark bags nestled underneath them, dried tear tracks down his cheeks and along his scruffy jaw where he hasn’t shaved in a few days. Eddie opens his mouth to ask a confused “_how fucking long have I been out?_” but he’s stopped before he can even make a single sound, being pulled forward into a sudden hug.

Richie has his arms wrapped tight around Eddie’s shoulders—immediately moved from around his torso when Eddie had muttered a pained “_ow_”—and his head is buried in the crook of his neck, hair tickling his throat and beard scratchy against his skin and his glasses awkwardly pinching at his flesh; none of that _matters_. It doesn’t matter as Eddie finally snaps out of it and throws his arms around Richie’s waist, an awkward position in their strange amalgamation of half-sitting/half-standing, but that doesn’t matter either, because there’s a sudden cold dampness leaking through the collar of Eddie’s hospital gown accompanied by a choked sob of “_Eds_”, and it _certainly_ doesn’t fucking matter when Eddie realises he might also be smearing his tears along Richie’s shirt as he digs his fingers tighter into the fabric and refuses to let go.

After what feels like hours, Richie pulls back first. He’s sniffling, _always a big baby_, and his hands linger on Eddie’s shoulders before they slowly and hesitantly move, one resting lightly on the back of his neck and the other coming to a stop when his warm palm presses gently against Eddie’s cheek, a thumb stroking idly across his skin and dragging away any stray teardrops. It’s comforting, and Eddie sighs tiredly as he leans into it. He’s _exhausted_.

“I thought you were gonna die,” Richie mumbles through tears, voice thick, and Eddie places a hand atop the one Richie has on his cheek, pressing further into it.

“But I didn’t,” he whispers.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment when Richie looks at him like _that_, because it’s all he can do to hold back from voicing the only thought in his mind right now, that one singular phrase bouncing around in the haze and fog, trying to force its way out of his mouth; _not yet_. Not right now.

Richie smiles softly before moving away. He doesn’t go far, hands dropping from Eddie’s face to gently slide down his arm—Eddie croaks out a small laugh, ticklish, and Richie’s eyes light up at remembering that horrible little fact—and eventually linking their fingers together again when he sits down in the chair at Eddie’s bedside. It’s clearly been dragged from the other side of the room, pressed up as close to the bed as it can possibly be, leaving little to no space for Richie’s stupidly long legs. He doesn’t seem to mind it though, just leans forward so he’s half-sprawled across the bed, head resting on Eddie’s undoubtedly bony knees as he aimlessly toys with their joined hands and looks up at him.

He’s beautiful. It’s weird, maybe, to be using words like _beautiful_ to describe the evidently sleep-deprived 40-year-old man lounging in your lap, and it’s probably weird because Eddie sure as _fuck_ doesn’t think of _himself_ as beautiful or anything even close to it, but with the way Richie keeps looking at him—_is_ looking at him—he thinks maybe _Richie_ would call him beautiful; he _knows_ Richie would. He _has_. There’re countless memories coming back to him of Richie calling him cute almost daily when they were kids, of Richie throwing an arm over his shoulders and calling him handsome when they were 16, of a quiet and drunken “_you know you’re beautiful, right?_” at 18.

Eddie feels drunk right _now_— not in a good way. He can’t make out any of the labels on his IV bags from here, can’t be bothered to lean forward or actually risk moving, lest he throw up everywhere, which even the thought _alone_ makes his fucking stomach churn and his head spin faster. He can feel the gauze underneath his gown, pressed tight to his skin and held in place with more tape than necessary, wrapped all the way around his chest and mid-stomach section. There’s a dull ache beneath it all, nestled deep, and he knows if he wasn’t in hospital right now it’d be a _hell_ of a fucking worse pain. He’s being medicated.

A sudden laugh escapes him at that, pure childish giddiness at the concept of being high, but this isn’t exactly his first run-in with being medicated at the hospital—he lifts his hand slowly to his face, squinting, coming to the eventual conclusion that the clear fluid in his drip is most likely _morphine_—and this also isn’t exactly a _fun_ type of high; not that Eddie would know _anything_ about that. He only knows what Richie and Bev—and occasionally Stan—would tell him, and he’s pretty sure his nausea and dizziness and overall shitty feeling is _nothing_ like their fucking _ragers_.

Richie yawns, squeezing Eddie’s hand, and Eddie shakes his head.

“You should probably go, Rich,” he smiles, “I don’t want you to break your back or whatever from sleeping in that fuckin’ chair.”

“Are you calling me old, Eds?” Richie grins as he stretches, slowly lifting his arms above his head, and the audible popping of his joints is just _perfect_ timing.

They both laugh weakly, obviously tired.

“Maybe you’re right,” Richie says, a finger tracing gentle circles onto the back of Eddie’s hand, “for once.”

“I’m _always_ right,” Eddie snaps back, “go get some proper rest, man. I’ll still be here when you return, unfortunately for me.”

Richie pinches the back of his hand and Eddie scowls, pulling it away and rolling his eyes at the small cackle he gets in response.

They stare at each other in silence for a few minutes—something probably completely unheard of until this very moment—and Richie eventually opens his mouth, deciding against it when nothing comes out and he closes it again, shaking his head at Eddie’s raised eyebrow and instead opting to stand up from his chair. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks awkwardly on his feet.

“I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

Eddie nods, giving a small hum, and keeps his eyes open just long enough to watch Richie leave. As soon as he’s gone, Eddie sighs, shuffling around to try and get as comfortable as possible in the _most_ uncomfortable bed he’s ever been in, and despite the dizziness and the sickness and the pain, he soon finds himself drifting back to sleep. He’s sure he has the drugs to thank for all of it.

Waking up without Richie in his chair is disorientating. It’s upsetting, for a moment, because Eddie is still in a half-asleep state and his head is still spinning and all he can think about is being _alone_, being in the pharmacy and being in the sewers and being in that cave and— there’s a sudden knock on the door. It’s redundant, because the door is open, he now realises, but it’s _polite_, and Bev gives him a shy wave before letting herself wander in.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” she smiles as she settles into a different chair, one at the _other_ side of his bed, “how’re you feeling?”

Eddie pushes himself into sitting up, leaning against the bedframe and hissing when the cold metal presses to his skin through his gown.

“Like _shit_,” he scowls, and then softens when she laughs, “what the fuck happened to me? What day is it?”

She pulls a strange face back at him, nose crinkling up in something like amusement, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear while crossing one leg over the other.

“The doctors came in to talk to you earlier,” she tilts her head, “do you not remember that?”

_Seriously_? _God_, he must have been _so_ fucking out of it. Bev breaks into another laugh, giggly and sweet, and Eddie can’t help but grin back at her.

“You’re going to be fine,” she says eventually, tone genuine and warm, “well, you _apparently_ have a fairly big scar on your chest, but that’s pretty cool if you ask me. Rich thinks so too.”

Eddie _hates_ how much he perks up at hearing even the slightest mention of Richie. Bev only smiles and rolls her eyes.

“He’s around here somewhere. Do you want me to go find him for you?”

“In a minute,” he decides, and then glances down at his hands, at the wedding ring still around his finger, “I need to talk to you about something, actually.”

He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to get to this point. It’s shameful, really. It’s fucking _embarrassing_. Would he have just lived with it, forever, if he hadn’t ever met Richie again? Would he have suffered through an awful marriage with a woman he doesn’t love for the rest of his life? He knows the answer. He’s _pathetic_.

A hand settles around his, fingers covering his ring, and Bev looks at him like she _knows_. She’s always been unfairly good at that. He gives her an empty smile.

“I think I need a divorce.”

It pains him to even say it, for some reason. It feels thick and heavy in his throat, like it’s burning him when it leaves his mouth, and he hates it, _hates_ the nagging fear in the back of his mind that tells him he can’t do this; a familiar voice, a shrill shriek of _“you can’t leave me, Eddie-bear_”, and his chest constricts and his stomach churns and his hands shake because she’s _right_. She won’t ever allow this, or even agree to this at all, are you fucking _insane_? You really think you can just _leave_? For some _man_? That it’s _that_ easy?

His breath catches in his lungs, struggling to come out, and _great_, this is _just_ what he needs right now, a fucking asthma attack— Bev squeezes his hand, a reminder that she’s there, before leaning down and pulling his inhaler out of her backpack. He quickly takes it from her, nodding appreciatively, and sprays it into his mouth; he waits a few seconds—_three, four, five_—and then sighs, head hitting back against the wall with a _thunk_ when his chest untightens and he can think again.

(Reasonably, he _knows_. He _knows_ it isn’t real. He knows he doesn’t have asthma. Perhaps that’s why Bev has his inhaler hidden away, because there’s no fucking _way_ that the doctors here are letting a 40-year-old man continue to believe he has fake fucking asthma.)

“I’ll help you through this, Eds,” Bev strokes a thumb along the back of his hand, “we’ll all be there for you.”

He’s not going to cry. He’s _not_. The tears welling up are a culmination of several things, like the fact that he has to get a divorce, that he’s getting a divorce because he’s in love with someone else, and that someone else is a man and he’s a man that Eddie thinks—_prays_—loves him back. The tender smile on Bev’s face and the slightly glossy look to her eyes is almost enough to make Eddie break, sniffling awkwardly as he tries not to cry, and then ultimately failing when she lets out a choked laugh behind a sob. He lifts his free hand to wipe frantically at his eyes, hiding his wobbly grin when she continues laughing at him.

“What’re we cryin’ about?” Richie strolls in through the open door, a bag of snacks hanging loosely from the crook of his elbow, “what’d I miss? You guys know I _love_ a good ol’ cry-fest.”

He sits down in his own chair, still impossibly close to Eddie’s bed, and starts helping himself to the contents of his goodie bag. Eddie hates several things about this: one, that Richie has the audacity to bring _sugar_ into Eddie’s hospital room and knows full-fucking-well that he can’t eat any of it; two, he’s going to sit there and fucking rustle the plastic bag and crinkle all the snacks and make unnecessary amounts of noise; and _three_, he’s going to look _annoyingly_ good while being a pain in the ass. Eddie doesn’t want to comment on the fact that Richie is wearing a fresh change of clothes from the last time he was here, hair not as messy as before and his stubble neatly shaved. He stares down at his stupid hospital gown instead and vaguely wonders how _shitty_ he looks.

Bev removes her hand from Eddie’s, dabbing cautiously at her eyes and wiping away at her smudged makeup. She gives Eddie a careful glance, a raised eyebrow and unsure pout, and he sighs before rolling his eyes and waving a hand dismissively at her. _It’s fine_.

“We’re discussing my plans for a divorce,” he says casually, like it doesn’t tear his fucking lungs apart to get it out.

Richie pretends to be unfazed. Eddie is watching him carefully. He knows it struck _something_ within him, noticeable in the slight falter of his hands where he pauses in ripping open a candy bar, and then when he quickly goes back to acting _normal_, suspiciously unbothered as he leans back in his chair and kicks a leg out underneath the bed. Eddie scowls when it jostles the bedframe.

“_Yeah?_” Richie raises an eyebrow, “why’s that?”

It’s nonchalant in the worst of ways. Eddie wants to reach forward, wrap his hands around Richie’s neck, and fucking _strangle him_.

He does the next best thing and smacks the candy bar from his stupid little hands, grinning smugly when it hits the ground and Richie makes a pained whining noise. Bev sighs from his other side, amused, and stands up.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she smiles knowingly at Eddie and he tries to hold back from blushing, _fuck_, “but I’ll be back to help you with this, I promise.”

He nods and returns her smile before she leaves, and then he turns back to where Richie is still looking solemnly at the chocolate on the floor. He _knows_ Richie isn’t seriously bothered, can tell from the red tips of his ears and the stillness of his body that he’s just focusing his attention elsewhere so he doesn’t have to address the awful fucking silence that’s fallen over them. This conversation has been heading into dangerous territory the second Richie had walked into the room, and Eddie knows there’s _no_ pulling it back now. Divorce: _check_.

The silence drags, tense, and Eddie coughs awkwardly to call attention back to himself. He raises an eyebrow when Richie peers up at him.

“I can practically hear you overthinking, Rich,” he tilts his head, “which isn’t hard, considering there’s not much else goin’ on in there.”

Richie laughs weakly, flipping Eddie off, and then pauses. He bites at his lip—_don’t_, Eddie thinks, _please don’t fucking do that, holy shit_—and nervously ruffles his hair.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, voice quiet and strained, “it’s a lot—”

“I love you,” Eddie interrupts.

It comes out easily. In fact, it’s the easiest thing Eddie has had to say in the past few days. In his entire _life_. Richie stares back at him, mouth hanging open, caught on a word, and Eddie feels himself genuinely smiling for once.

“I love you, Richie Tozier,” he repeats, more confident.

There’s no running away from it now, the wheels are already set in motion. The room is quiet again, nothing but the sounds of machinery beeping and people walking past in the hallway, and Richie suddenly drops his head to bury his face in the sheets bunched at Eddie’s side. He lets out a muffled “_fuck_” and Eddie suddenly panics because _shit_, is he _wrong_? Did he somehow misread _everything_? Did he seriously just fucking confess his stupid fucking feelings and ruin—

“Jesus _Christ_, Eddie,” Richie lifts his face slightly from the bedsheets, eyes glossy but the corner of his lips twitching into an unrestrained grin, “am I dreaming? Pinch me, I need to double check.”

Eddie scowls, unamused, and pinches him for the sake of it. _Say it back. Fucking say it back. Tell me I haven’t fucked this up, _please.

Richie yelps, rubbing at the fresh red mark on his arm, and then looks up at Eddie seriously. His gaze immediately softens—almost crying again, _fucking hell_—and he reaches forward to connect their hands.

“I love you,” he says, earnest and real and the most serious Eddie has ever heard him in his life, “I’ve always loved you, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Eddie feels like his face is on fire and his heart is going crazy and there are butterflies in his stomach; he chokes out a sudden laugh, pent-up nerves more than anything else, and can’t contain his smile when Richie squeezes his hand and beams happily at him. Maybe this whole _“come back to Derry, fight an evil clown, almost fucking die_” thing hasn’t been _so_ bad after all. At least Eddie has gotten _something_ out of it.

“Can I kiss you?” Richie asks, interrupting his romantic daydreaming, and Eddie huffs out a small laugh at his sparkling eyes— it’s suddenly not funny anymore when Richie licks his lower lip, gaze dropping to stare at Eddie’s mouth, and shit, _fuck_. _Okay_.

His entire body screams _yes, please, fucking kiss me already_. It’s too much.

“No,” he shakes his head, quickly continuing on when Richie stiffens, “not— not yet. I gotta call Myra. At least wait until I’m actually _separated_, you horndog.”

Richie barks out a laugh. He squeezes their joined hands again before lifting them up to his face, planting a gentle kiss to the back of Eddie’s palm and then sighing almost wistfully. Eddie gets it. His face is in fucking _flames_.

“I suppose I can wait,” he smirks then, _oh God_, “though I’m not sure how long _for_. What’s your stance on pre-marital s—”

Eddie bites back a grin as he shoves his hand against Richie’s face.

He doesn’t care when they end up pinching and tickling each other and Richie knocks one of the wires taped to his chest and the fucking machine starts to ring loudly, calling a nurse into the room who immediately begins chastising them for screwing around with the equipment, and he certainly doesn’t care when Bev wanders in after hearing the commotion and gives them both a _knowing_ and unimpressed side-eye; Eddie doesn’t care about anything else in the entire _world_ right now besides Richie.

(It’s fall. Eddie Kaspbrak sits in a hospital bed in Derry, friends—_family_—refusing to leave his side, and he smiles happily to himself, safe and secure in the knowledge that he’s _always_ been in love with Richie Tozier, and he _always_ fucking will be.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much for reading!!! drop me a comment and say hey sometime on [twitter](https://twitter.com/transtsukki) or [tumblr](https://tsukkikages.tumblr.com/) :')


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